Shrapnel
by Alipeeps
Summary: An explosion in one of the labs leads to Shep whumpage galore... No ships other than friendships. Chapter 11 now up!
1. Explosion

_Okay then - here it is... my first ever Atlantis fanfic. Oh and look - it's a Shep whumper! grin_

_Hope you enjoy - please review and let me know what you think... more installments will follow!_

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The first thing John Sheppard was aware of was a ringing in his ears. For a long moment that was all he was aware of as the world came slowly back into focus, consciousness filtering in in stages. His head ached, heavy and dizzy. There was a coppery taste in his mouth. Through the ringing in his ears and the pounding in his head, he became aware that something nearby fizzed and crackled. 

Sensation returned slowly to the rest of his body. His limbs felt heavy and numb.

"…pard?…" Static cut through the popping and crackling. "Col… ay?….. Co…. n?"

Everything ached. His head swam and it was so tempting to just give in to the hovering darkness.

Fizzing and popping. "..nel… ard? Ca… ear…. e?""

It was a struggle to open his eyes. For a moment he couldn't make sense of what he was seeing but then the shapes swam into place and comprehension dawned. Ceiling. He was looking at the ceiling. He was on the floor.

"Nggghhh" A voice from nearby. "Oh, my head…"

He knew that voice.

"..Kay?…" his voice came out scratchy and raw and he swallowed convulsively, trying to get some moisture in a mouth that felt parched and dry. He became aware of an acrid smell in the air.

The ceiling above shifted hazily. It occurred to him belatedly that it was dark. Far too dark. Who turned out the lights? Sporadic flickers, blue against the gloom, made the shadows dance across the ceiling.

White noise and static mixed with tinny voices. ".. Shepp… ctor Mck… Plea… pond?"

There was a muffled curse from somewhere behind him and the clattering sound of metal dropping onto metal. He gritted his teeth and tried to move unwieldy limbs to turn towards the sound.

Hot pain washed through him with a suddenness that took his breath away, chasing numbness from his limbs and leaving a fiery ache in it's path. A groan escaped him as he tried to breathe through the pain, spots dancing in front of his eyes as he fought for breath.

"Sheppard?" McKay's voice was thin and hoarse but still managed to convey an air of disgruntled exasperation. John concentrated on holding himself tense and still, biting his lip as pain rippled and flared through him. Scattered thumps and clatterings heralded McKay's approach, accompanied by a smothered coughing and an ongoing litany of complaints.

"Of all the stupid things to do. What is it with you and this hero complex? Huh? Does the military give a free lobotomy to everyone who joins up? Mind you, you'd have to be lobotomised to even want to.. Oh. There you are."

Static fizzed and crackled somewhere near his head. John concentrated on breathing.

"…ppard, Can you… r me?

"What's that? Is that your radio? Is it working?" Rodney was gabbling, poorly-concealed panic raising the pitch of his voice as he stumbled over his words. The sporadic flickering of blue light outlined his silhouette as McKay fumbled his way towards John in the near darkness.

The initial flare of pain seemed to be settling and John gratefully let some of the tension ease from his muscles, tremors shivering through his limbs as they slowly relaxed. He coughed harshly, an acrid taste building in the back of his throat. He could smell smoke.

"McKay…"

His view of the ceiling was suddenly blocked as McKay loomed over him.

"Sheppard?" McKay continued his monologue of discontent as he lowered himself unsteadily to the floor beside John. "Dammit! I can't see a thing in here. The explosion must have blown all the power circuits along this corridor."

He was off on a tangent, rambling on about the time it would take him to repair all this damage, as if he didn't have enough to do already, thank you very much, when John's breathless "Explosion?" stopped him dead in his tracks.

John could hear the tightness of fear behind the sharp sarcasm in McKay's voice, "Well I know _I_ banged my head pretty good – thanks to your heroics – but still, blowing up a lab is the kind of thing you tend to remember…"

John let the flow of words wash over him, McKay's ranting familiar enough to be a soothing white noise that he tuned out as he became aware of a delicious, spreading numbness.

Snap. Fizzle. "Doc… ay… ease, com… n"

"Where the hell is your radio? I think I lost mine in the blast – either that or when you shoved me into a wall!"

The numbness was cool, inviting. It seemed to spread upwards from the cold metal of the floor beneath him.

McKay was fumbling around in the gloom, muttering constantly to himself. "Oh this is ridiculous!" he snapped angrily. "I need to be able to see!"

John was tired. So tired and it would be so easy to just close his eyes and let sleep take him. If only Rodney would just shut up and let him sleep. "Tac vest.." he mumbled drowsily. Maybe if Rodney got what he wanted he would stop complaining.

"What? What about your vest!" McKay's voice was a panicked squeak. "Of course! You have a flashlight in there? Where?"

Sheppard grunted as McKay began to fumble blindly with the vest, frantically searching pockets as he went. His hasty search jarred John out of his comfortable half-doze and he hissed sharply as a hand prodded him somewhere tender.

"What the hell is…. Oh my god." There was a sick fear in McKay's voice now and the jolt of pain had chased back the numbness enough for that fear to make John's stomach lurch. Before he could form the words to ask what was wrong, sudden light exploded across his retinas and he screwed his eyes shut with a groan.

The light flickered and bobbed wildly for a moment, dancing redly across the insides of his eyelids. With his eyes shut the sound of his own rasping breathing was loud in his ears and he almost didn't hear Rodney's whispered, "Oh god."

He cracked his eyes open as the light began to bob and weave again, squinting against the brightness to see Rodney sweeping the flashlight this way and that across the corridor floor. He slowly turned his head to watch, surprised to find the floor covered in scattered debris, McKay kneeling in the midst of it, scrabbling with his free hand through the rubble.

McKay looked pale and wan in the bright wash of light, his eyes huge and dark in a washed-out face, his brow furrowed in concentration as he scoured the debris for the missing radio. John was starting to drift, the numbness creeping slowly back into his limbs, spreading outwards from the cold metal floor, when Rodney let out a triumphant shout.

"This is Dr McKay, can anyone hear me?" Static crackled and hissed. John drifted.

"Dammit!" The curse was oddly muffled and he started back into wakefulness to see McKay holding the earpiece in both hands, the flashlight held firmly in his mouth and his face twisted in despair as he fiddled with the crackling radio.

McKay's hands seemed to shine in the dancing beam of light and John realised distantly that they were the wrong colour…. they looked red, red and glistening against the stark whiteness of Rodney's face.

There was a burst of static and a high-pitched screech that made John cringe. "..dney, can you hear me?"

The flashlight fell from Rodney's mouth, hitting the floor with a clatter as he fumbled to hook the earpiece around his ear. "Elizabeth!"

The torch rolled for a moment on the floor of the corridor, casting dancing shadows up and down the walls. "Rodney! Yes, can you hear me?"

"Oh thank god." John watched Rodney sag with relief, the nervous tension draining from his face.

"What happened Rodney?" Elisabeth's voice was purposefully calm. "We've lost all power to the section of the city near your lab and we've been unable to raise Colonel Sheppard on the radio. Is he with you?"

John's eyes were half-closed now and he was only vaguely aware of McKay's gaze on him, his mouth twisted in fear as he stumbled over his reply.

"Umm, there was an explosion. Uh, an explosion in the lab. He pushed me out of the way - why would he go and do something so stupid?.." McKay's voice was rising in panic, his words rushing out in a barely coherent flood.

"Rodney!" Dr Weir's voice snapped him out of his panic. "You need to calm down.."

McKay's voice broke as he snapped into the radio.

"No, Elizabeth, I don't need to calm down, I need HELP! You need to get Beckett and a team down here, right now! The Colonel's injured.."

John let the voices fade into white noise as his eyes drifted closed. There was no pain now, only sweet, cool numbness. He was drifting in a cool, calm sea.

McKay's voice was faint now but he was vaguely aware of words floating after him as he slipped into darkness.

"Elizabeth? You need to hurry…"

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TBC… 


	2. Bleeding Out

_Thanks to all who read and enjoyed the first chapter – and for all the lovely reviews. The whumpage continues apace in chapter two… and, I'm sorry, it's that evil cliffie again… evil grin_

_Please review and let me know what you think…

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As a scientist Rodney McKay believed in rationality above all else. He knew for a fact that, in the normal course of events, barring black holes, subspace compression, temporal mechanics, quantum physics and other such fascinating subjects, the passage of time was a universal constant. Time didn't speed up or slow down, only the observer's perception of time altered.

Yet somehow this cold, rational knowledge was poor comfort as he knelt in the smoke-filled gloom, his hands covered in the blood of a man who was probably the closest thing to a best friend he'd ever had, trying to stop that friend from bleeding to death right there in front of him. Despite everything he knew to the contrary, time in his own dark corner of Atlantis had slowed down to a crawl.

He wanted to scream in frustration – John needed help, _right now_. And where the hell was Carson anyway? He had never felt so helpless, so… ignorant. What use was all his great knowledge right now, huh? None of it was enough to fix this. Astrophysics? Will that stop the bleeding? Quantum mechanics? Will that bring the colour back to his friend's greying cheeks?

He knelt helplessly in the dark with his hands pressed to John's abdomen and cursed himself for his ineptitude. Cursed the lab for blowing up in the first place. Cursed John for his goddamn hero complex that made him shove Rodney out of the way and take the full force of the blast himself.

He could feel the panic rising in him just as surely as he could feel the sluggish pump of blood beneath his fingers. In the light of the nearby flashlight he could see it oozing thickly through his fingers, no matter how hard he pressed. He couldn't bring himself to look down at the floor; he didn't need to. The sticky dampness soaking into his pants where he knelt beside John told him more than he wanted to know about the spreading pool of blood. He pressed down harder, ignoring the ache in his arms, ignoring the terrifying stillness of the body beneath his hands; more scared than ever by the fact that John didn't even react to the painful pressure on the wound.

It felt like hours since he'd finally gotten in touch with the control tower and screamed at Elizabeth to send help. Where the hell was Carson? He didn't dare lift a hand from the wound to toggle the radio on and demand to know what was taking so long.

Sheppard's face was ghostly white in the glare of the flashlight, his eyes closed and his lips bloodless. Rodney stifled a inappropriate giggle, feeling the edges of hysteria crowding in on him. Bloodless was the word alright. Bloodless indeed. Because all of Sheppard's blood was leaking out between _his_ fingers, spreading across the floor, making the skin on his legs want to cringe away from the slowly cooling dampness of his pants. His eyes began to burn with hot, angry tears; tears he refused to let fall.

Where the _hell_ was Carson?

He'd done everything he could think of to help John and it just wasn't enough. It wasn't going to be enough. Sheppard had insisted that all the members of his gate team had basic first aid training but Rodney had never thought he'd be struggling to put that training to use in a dark and debris-filled corridor of the city they called home rather than on some distant hostile planet. And basic first-aid just wasn't going to cut it in this situation. There was nothing Rodney could do but put pressure on the wound and try to slow the bleeding until Carson got there.

He'd never in his life felt such fear and despair as when he'd finally fumbled the flashlight from John's tac vest and flicked the switch with fingers trembling and slick with… oh god, in the glaring light from the flashlight his hands were glistening red, confirming the dreadful suspicion that had leaped into his mind the moment he'd stumbled across damp, sticky.. something… and heard John's agonised intake of breath. In a panic he'd almost dropped the flashlight, the smooth, round barrel slipping and sliding through his blood-slick hands, sending shadows racing up and down the walls, before he managed to steady it and direct the beam across John's supine body.

When he'd reached the abdomen it had taken all his willpower not to throw up and fear and nausea had constricted his throat to the point that his voice had shrivelled to little more than a whisper. "Oh god," he'd said and a part of him had wanted to keep saying it, panic welling up inside him in a hot, sick wave that made him want to rock back and forth in the dark, to scream and cry "Oh god, oh god, oh god.." because he had no idea how to fix this. Dammit, he was a scientist, he was not cut out for field work – not _this_ kind of field work!

The field dressing stashed in Sheppard's tac vest was worse than useless, soaked through in mere minutes. Rodney had done the only thing possible and pressed both his hands as best he could to the ragged wound, pressing down hard to try and stem the flow of blood, kneeling over John as he used his weight to put as much pressure as he could onto the injury. It didn't matter that his arms ached, didn't matter that his head was pounding from where he'd collided with an unforgiving wall. He didn't dare to ease up on the pressure even for a second to search for any other injuries, to even check for a pulse. The only thing that told him that the cold, still body beneath his hands was still clinging to life was the slow pulse of warm blood through his tightly clenched fingers.

Rodney swallowed down a moan of despair and asked the empty corridor helplessly, "Carson, where _are_ you?"

He was beginning to despair of anyone getting to them in time.. how long could a man bleed like this and survive anyway? His oh-so-prized analytical mind immediately provided him with an answer, relentlessly calculating the probable flow rate of blood versus the amount of blood in the average human body, factoring in shock and hypotension, probable infection from the…. He groaned and screwed his eyes shut, whispering "Shut up. Shut up. Shut _UP_!" Though he'd never admit it under pain of torture, there were times when Rodney wished he could just switch his brain off. Just not think about things, not know the answer, not instinctively calculate the worst possible case scenario. Panicked or not, he'd been telling the bare truth in that stranded jumper, stuck half way through a damned event horizon in space, when he'd stated that he was the only one who truly comprehended how screwed they were. They said a little knowledge was a dangerous thing. Well, sometimes a lot of knowledge was downright terrifying. And his relentless intellect was telling him that time was fast running out for his friend.

"This is all your damned fault, you know" he told Sheppard raggedly. "Acting the self-sacrificing hero again."

John was silent. Still.

Rodney coughed harshly, his throat dry from the lingering acrid smoke of fried electrical systems. "Despite what you seem to think," he lectured his unconscious friend, "I am quite capable of looking after myself. I don't _need_ you to fling me into a wall every time something blows up."

Even in the stillness of unconsciousness, John's face seemed to deride that last statement and, realising the ridiculousness of what he'd just said, Rodney let out a sound that was half way between a laugh and a sob, startling himself at the barely controlled hysteria evident in his voice.

Calm. Calm. Need to stay calm. In his mind Rodney could almost hear Sheppard's voice telling him to stop using his mouth and start using his head. He swallowed thickly.

"I can't help it," he stuttered rapidly. "I talk when I'm nervous. Always have done."

He looked down at his friend, lying so still and so white, the harsh glare of the flashlight leeching colour from his skin and casting dark shadows across his face.

"Don't you dare give up on me, Sheppard." His voice sounded small and lost and alone in the darkness.

"Please?"

A faint noise somewhere off to the right raised his head and hope rushed through him dizzyingly, adrenalin surging, pushing aside the trembling in his arms. More noises; clanging of metal, the grinding noise of a door being forced open, footsteps? And… oh thank god, flashlights, beams of light cutting into the darkness.

"Carson!" It was more of a scream than a yell.

"Rodney?" The doctor's lilting voice echoed down the darkened corridor.

"Over here! It's about time!"

Carson's voice was as calm as ever, unperturbed by McKay's peremptory tone. "We got here as quickly as we could Rodney. The power is out to this whole section.."

The flashlights were coming closer and Rodney almost sagged with relief.

"You made it, John," he muttered, "Carson's here. You'll be fine now."

He let the pressure on the wound ease just a fraction, the aches and pains in his whole body rushing in with a vengeance as he began to relax. His hands felt wet and sticky, clammy with John's blood. His heart stuttered in his chest as he realised with horror that something was different, something was wrong. No blood oozed between his tightly clenched fingers; he could no longer feel the slow, sluggish pump of blood under his hands. Panic seized him and froze him in place as realisation hit him hard. Oh no, oh no, oh no. Not now, dammit, not now!

"Carson!" he screamed. "Get here, NOW!"

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TBC… 


	3. Resuscitation

_A/N: Just to specify the time setting for this fic – it's set during Season 2, post-Conversion but pre-Michael/Allies (hence one or two reference in this chapter to events up to Conversion)._

_Disclaimer: I know nothing about medicine other than very basic stuff and whatever research I can feasibly do on the internet. In other words – if the details of Shep's injuries and/or the treatment etc make no sense whatsoever then I apologise profusely!_

_All feedback gratefully received, as ever - review and let me know your thoughts:D

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Dr Carson Beckett was a veteran of many a grisly trauma, with ER stints under his belt and medical experience gained in many different countries with wildly different standards of care. He'd dealt with triage situations in places from Scotland to the Sudan – not to mention the last year and more dealing with everything from gunshot wounds to wraith stunner blasts to alien retroviruses here in the Pegasus galaxy.

That said, the scene revealed by the sweeping beam of his flashlight as he stumbled hastily through the debris-filled corridor outside Rodney's lab seemed to burn itself into his very retinas – a frozen moment of horror such as he had rarely witnessed, and would surely be hard pressed to ever forget.

For a stunned second, before his professional instincts kicked into gear and propelled him into action, Carson's overriding impression was of the stark contrast of colours. In the harsh white light of the flashlight everything was cast into relief of light and shade, black and white… and red. So much red.

Colonel John Sheppard lay slumped on the floor of the corridor, crumpled up against the wall as though he'd slid down it before landing on the floor. Dr Rodney McKay knelt over the body of his friend, his hands and forearms smeared with blood where he held them pressed tight against John's abdomen, his hands placed awkwardly around a large, jagged piece of metal that was clearly embedded in the Colonel's belly. Carson took in all this in a fraction of a second, his mind already processing, assessing, considering treatment protocols as he dropped to his knees beside McKay, heedless of the gruesome slick of blood around his patient.

Rodney turned a haggard face to Carson, panic and despair writ large in his expression and his voice a high-pitched babble of fear. "I think his heart's stopped! _Do_ something, Carson!"

Beckett's voice betrayed no hint of fear or worry, his calm professional demeanour slipping naturally into place as he immediately took control of the situation, calling over his shoulder to where the rest of his team came running down the corridor, his orders concise and urgent, demanding IV and type-specific lines and the portable defibrillator to be charged.

He was firm but gentle as he carefully lifted Rodney's hands away from the wound, noting clinically the absolute pallor of the man's face and the trembling in his limbs, making a rapid diagnosis of shock. For the time being, however, Rodney's condition was the least of his concerns and the man would have to wait his turn.

He was rapidly assessing his patient even as his team quickly set up their equipment around him, moving efficiently to carry out his orders, the cluttered corridor a sudden hive of carefully ordered activity centred around the limp form of the Colonel.

Sheppard's skin was cool and clammy beneath his fingers as he checked for a carotid pulse. Focused solely on the task at hand, he was only vaguely aware of Rodney hovering agitatedly in the background, peering over the shoulders of his staff as they worked, his voice high and panicked as he questioned their every move, demanding that they do something, _fix this_! John was unnaturally still and silent; no respiration, no circulation. "Let us work, Rodney" Carson chided gently as he held out his hands for the charged defibrillator paddles. "We're doing everything we can.."

He rubbed the paddles together in preparation as a member of his trained triage team finished cutting through John's blood-soaked t-shirt, exposing the too-pale skin of his chest as she carefully freed the damp, sticky remnants of fabric from around the ragged edges of the wound. The heart monitor began to emit a shrill, constant tone as she quickly attached the monitoring pads to Sheppard's chest. Even amidst all the chaos and the high-pitched whine of the flatline, Carson was aware of Rodney's despairing, "Oh god..." as his assistant quickly pulled the ever-present dog tags aside and Carson knelt over his patient.

"Clear!"

There was a frozen moment of silence as though everyone in that dark, cramped space were holding their breath as Sheppard's body jerked under the surge of electricity. The heart monitor stuttered for a moment, beeping unevenly as it registered fleeting muscle contractions from the passing current, and then a collective sigh seemed to whisper in the air as the familiar, steady wail resumed.

"Charge to 200 – clear!"

"Come on, come on, come _on_!" Rodney's voice was shrill and desperate in the background as Sheppard convulsed again, electricity spasming his muscles.

_Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep_

Flatline.

The rhythmic hiss of the oxygen reservoir bag forcing air into John's lungs was a steady counterpoint to the controlled chaos of noise and movement, every member of the team grim with concentration as they worked to stabilize their patient. "Come on son, don't give up just yet.." Carson murmured softly as the rising pitch of the defibrillator's hum warned of the charge building up.

"Clear!"

The sharp snap of the defibrillator discharging echoed from the cool metal of the walls. The heart monitor beeped, stuttered, whined for a long, long moment, and then suddenly beeped again, and again.. and again. Feeling as though he hardly dared breathe himself, Carson pressed his fingers carefully to John's neck. It took him a moment to find it and it was dangerously faint and thready but it was there, the flutter of a pulse in the carotid artery.

There was no time for the luxury of relief – John was a long way from out of the woods and Carson's voice was tight and authoritative as he issued brisk commands to his team. "Alright everyone, we've got him back, now we've to get him stabilized. We've got massive blood loss, I want as much type-specific as we can get into him until we can isolate the haemorrhaging. Jannsen, shine that flashlight over this way son.." He spared a quick glance for McKay where he hovered anxiously in the background. The scientist's face was as white as a sheet, sweat beading his pale forehead where a swollen bruise was already beginning to discolour the skin. "Karen," he called out as he turned back to his work. "Take care of Dr McKay please – and make sure you check for concussion."

Dr Beckett sat back on his heels as he took a moment to get a proper look at the wound for the first time. It was hard to get a clear picture of the damage; the area around the wound was thick with oozing and clotting blood, with yet more viscous fluid pumping out now that circulation had been restored. He probed gently at the wound with gloved fingers; the metal fragment was jagged and bent and appeared to be deeply embedded in the abdomen, the flesh around it ripped and torn. In the bright glare of the flashlight he did his best to examine the wound for debris and contaminants, fragments of fabric from John's clothing, particle debris from the explosion; this whole area was filthy and still acrid with smoke, clearly infection was going to be a concern.

Carson sat back with a sigh.

"Right then." He stripped off his gloves with an audible snap, his decision made. "We can't deal with this here – we need to get him into surgery in a sterile environment."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait!" McKay interrupted angrily, pushing away the nurse who was trying to check his pupil reactions. "You're gonna _move_ him? Like _that_?"

Carson spared Rodney a sympathetic glance as he moved back to give room for a litter to be moved in next to Sheppard.

"We've no choice Rodney.." he began.

"Look at him!" McKay's voice was shaking, fear and tension flooding his system with adrenaline as he gesticulated wildly, his jittery hands encompassing the whole chaotic scene as he ranted. "He's got a piece of metal _a foot long_ sticking out of him – he's bleeding all over the floor..!"

"Aye, and he'll continue to do so until we can get him into surgery and isolate the bleed!"

Carson regretted the bite in his tone almost before he finished speaking. Rodney was pale and shocky, his eyes huge in the semi-darkness and his concern for his friend evident in his anguished face.

"I've no time to discuss this now, Rodney," Beckett stated calmly, keeping his voice soft and reassuring. "We can't possibly treat him here, we need to get him to theatre as soon as possible."

He turned back to his team and lost no time in supervising John's careful transfer to the litter. Sheppard's limbs were limp and toneless as they lifted him between them oh so gently, raising him from the floor only just enough to swiftly move him across and lay him carefully in the litter, one of the team supporting his head as a nurse continued to push oxygen into him. The wound packed as best they could for transport, the litter was swiftly raised from the ground and they prepared to return to the infirmary, the team clustering around the litter even as they set off, working to keep John breathing, holding bags of blood and IV fluid, trying to keep the bleeding under control. Time was now of the essence.

Carson could only hope that their time wasn't about to run out.

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TBC... 


	4. Waiting Room

_Bit of a shorter than usual chapter this time – I was going to split this chapter into several POV's but I started with Elizabeth's and it just got away from me! lol _

_Hence I've decided to leave it as just her POV and move the story on in the next chapter. Hope you like it – bit of McKay whumpage in this one... but fear not, the Shep whumpage will be back with a vengeance in Chapter 5!_

_Oh yeah... and the evil cliffhanger from hell? Yup, it's back... sorry! _

_Reviews? Yes please!

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Dr Weir was waiting anxiously outside the infirmary when the trauma team brought John in. For a few brief moments everything was chaos and movement; tense voices shouting orders and stats, a confusing babble of voices talking over one another, the daunting medical jargon striking fear into her heart – hypotensive, haemorrhage, respiratory distress – beeps and squawks of monitors; outstretched arms holding bags of fluid high in the air; the corridor resounding to the pounding of feet as the team rushed past her, the medical staff clustered together, reaching over and around each other to do their jobs... and in the eye of the storm the too still, too pale form of Colonel Sheppard, a crumpled a mess of wires and tubes and blood.

She stood helplessly as the commotion spun past her, her eyes catching Beckett's gaze for a split second even as he continued calling out instructions to his team. A brief moment of wordless communication and then the tide of frantic activity ripped them apart, carrying Carson along with it as the trauma team swept through the open infirmary doors. Trailing behind the chaos surrounding John's litter came a dusty, battle-weary ghost in the form of Dr Rodney McKay. The head of Atlantis' science teams stumbled along woodenly, a nurse hovering at his side, his attention fixed solely on the ongoing battle to keep John alive.

"Rodney.."

Elizabeth's blood ran cold in her veins as McKay numbly dragged his gaze away from the press of bodies in front of him – the eyes that met hers were hollow, shell-shocked, an expression of utter misery on his usually confident face. Rodney looked exhausted, his steps mechanical, as though sheer willpower was the only thing keeping him going. His skin was pale and waxy beneath a covering of soot and dust and the tightness around his eyes spoke of pain and worry.

"Elizabeth.." The usual McKay arrogance was missing from his voice, replaced by a bone-tired weariness.

The nurse who accompanied was brisk and business-like, her attention focused solely on her patient. Her voice was gentle but firm as she interrupted, "I'm sorry Dr Weir, but we need to get to Dr McKay to the infirmary. He has a possible concussion..."

Elizabeth's eyes were drawn to the swollen lump on Rodney's forehead, the skin already beginning to discolour. She couldn't help but notice the smears of blood darkening and drying on the left side of his face. Her throat tightened as concern for McKay swelled the desperate fear that had roiled in her stomach since they had first felt the muffled shudder that shook the city, the fear that had squeezed around her heart as power had failed near the science labs and they had tried and failed to contact two members of her closest staff.

"You're bleeding. Are you...?" she swallowed her hesitant question before it was completed. Stupid, stupid question, she berated herself. Of course he wasn't okay. She forced a degree of calmness she didn't feel into her voice as she turned her attention to the nurse, "How serious is his head wound?"

The nurse looked nonplussed for a moment and Rodney's steps faltered as his brow furrowed in confusion. He came to a halt in the infirmary doorway, the nurse hovering in concern as he turned back to Dr Weir.

"Bleeding?" he queried, a hint of the normal McKay paranoia breaking through the shock and fatigue as his ingrained hypochondria surfaced. His shoulders straightened slightly as he dredged up a last reserve of energy from who knew where, comprehension flitting across his features as he followed Elizabeth's concerned gaze and belatedly realised she was referring to his face. Moving slowly, as if in a daze, he unconsciously raised a hand to his face, mumbling absently, "No, no, it's not mine... it's.. I had to fix the radio..."

Elizabeth's sharp intake of breath seemed to break his train of thought and he dropped his gaze to his raised hand, a sick expression draining what little colour remained from his cheeks. She was frozen, unable to tear her gaze from the blood that coated both his hands. They were slick with it, red with it, crusted and dried with it. More blood than she could ever envision flowing from one frail, all-too-human body. John's blood.

McKay seemed to sway where he stood, the nurse reaching quickly to support him with a hand under his elbow. "Dr McKay!" She was turning him back towards the infirmary even as she spoke over her shoulder.

"I'm sorry Dr Weir, but I really need to get Dr McKay examined..."

Elizabeth nodded quickly.

"Of course. I'm sorry.." Her voice sounded thin and too high and she swallowed, her mouth suddenly too dry.

A reverberating crash sounded from within the infirmary and Elizabeth started at the noise, her gaze drawn back to Beckett's trauma team as they moved in an intricate, urgent dance around the gurney where John had been laid. Voices were raised as an alarm began to whine shrilly and Elizabeth's heart dropped like a stone. McKay stumbled forward desperately and the nurse tried to smile reassuringly as she moved to follow him.

"I'm sorry," she apologised hurriedly. "We'll let you know as soon as we have any news."

She grabbed McKay's arm and steered him firmly towards a nearby exam bed. With a soft "hush" the ornate doors slid shut behind them, cutting them off from view.

The last thing Elizabeth heard before the doors sealed on the chaos within was Carson's voice raised in desperation, "We're losing him!"

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_TBC..._


	5. Surgery

_Okay, reading back through this chapter it gets pretty gruesome in places so you have been warned! Lotsa medical stuff in this one (if blood makes you squeamish you may wanna read this one through your fingers!) and I've also been doing the old research thing so hopefully all the medical lingo sounds convincing and makes some kinda sense :)_

_The last chapter may have been kinda short but this one pretty much makes up for that! In previous chapters we've had a different POV for each chapter… I'm changing things up a little in this one and we've getting several POVs of events. We've got Shep whumpage and McKay angst galore so…Enjoy!_

_Hope you like it.. did I mention that reviews make me write faster? (grin)_

_P.S. Evil cliffies… Erm, I did it again didn't I? Sorry…

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The infirmary was chaos and confusion. McKay sat on an exam bed and watched the crisis unfold before him. He'd tried twice to get off the bed and go get a closer look, go and help, go and… Christ, he had no idea what, just _do something_! He had about 4 inches height advantage over the nurse but man, she had a grip like a steel vice. After his second attempt to leave her tender ministrations, she'd threatened to sedate him. He ignored her now, not even flinching as she flicked the beam of a penlight into his eye and out again, in and out, in and out. His gaze was fixed over her shoulder. Between the flashes of bright, white light he saw the cluster of medical staff disappear through the doors into the surgery suite. He couldn't see John, couldn't see what was happening through the crush of scrubs-clad bodies. The wailing of an alarm was silenced abruptly as the doors slid closed. The infirmary was suddenly cold and silent and empty. Like a devastated town after the tornado has passed, the sudden absence of chaos and destruction left a vacuum of tense expectation.. a sense of disbelief that the drama was over, had moved on. The debris of battle was scattered around the room; sterile swabs and blood-soaked dressings, discarded packaging from IV tubing, empty IV bags, drained of fluids and blood products. The remains of Sheppard's habitual black t-shirt lay abandoned in a corner, tossed aside in a moment of urgency. A pool of blood stained the infirmary floor, wheel tracks dragging through it and leading outwards towards the firmly closed doors. The doors behind which McKay's friend was fighting for his life.

Rodney sat on the bed and stared at the doors to the surgical suite. He was vaguely aware of rubbing his hands together in a slow, constant, nervous motion, the repetitive susurration of skin on skin loud in the silence of the infirmary. His hands felt gritty, dirty. He didn't notice the flakes of drying blood that peeled from his skin and floated slowly downwards in the stillness of the room, dotting the floor with specks of red and brown. Rodney sat and watched the doors…and waited.

* * *

The overhead lights in the surgical suite were glaringly bright. Under their unforgiving glare the Colonel's injuries were thrown into sharp, detailed relief. Dr Beckett took a moment to steady himself before approaching this most delicate task. The last 20 minutes had been a whirlwind of action with precious little time to do anything but react, treating each crisis as it arose, doing everything they could to keep Sheppard hanging on to that thin thread of life a little longer. The lad was a tough one, that was for sure. A fighter. Anything less and they'd have lost him several times over. They'd had to intubate as his breathing function had deteriorated and he'd coded again in the infirmary, the blood they were transfusing into him running out again almost as fast as they could squeeze the bags dry. As they'd rushed him into theatre Carson had had a brief moment of doubt, fearing that this time they wouldn't get him back. He should have known better than to ever give up on John Sheppard. Still, it had taken several charges of the defibrillator to get his heart started yet again and he was still hovering dangerously on the edge of dysrhythmia. There was no time to waste.

Examining and debriding the wound to Sheppard's abdomen was a slow, careful process. The flesh was ragged and torn, blood-soaked and crusted and contaminated with dirt and debris. Carson flushed the area repeatedly with saline and used a magnifying visor to allow him to pick out any visible foreign particles, his hands delicately manoeuvring a pair of long-stemmed tweezers as he pulled fragments of fabric and tiny shards of metal from the wound. Sweat beaded his forehead as he concentrated intensely on the intricate task. Cleaning out the wound was vital to preventing infection – John's body was in shock and dangerously weak from massive blood loss and the slightest fever could be enough to overwhelm his already overtaxed system. The biggest obstacle to John's continued survival however, was going to be removing the twisted piece of metal embedded into his flesh. Carson couldn't even begin to guess how deep the shrapnel had penetrated but it was clear from the amount of blood loss that John had a major bleed and they urgently needed to find it and stop it – and to get to it they would need to remove the piece of metal. There was a limit to how long they could continue to transfuse fresh blood into John and a limit to their supplies of blood – though even now members of Beckett's staff were rounding up donors to replenish their fast-disappearing supplies. There were also complications inherent in massively transfusing in this way; John was at risk for thrombocytopenia, hypocalcaemia, hyperkalemia, a catalogue of blood imbalances that could be disastrous in his weakened state. The jagged chunk of metal needed to come out, and it needed to come out soon. The problem was, as Carson well knew, that the shrapnel itself could very well be acting as a tamponade, helping to obstruct the bleed and slow the blood loss. If that was the case.. if the metal itself was partially sealing off the bleed, then once they removed it they'd have to work fast – incredibly fast - or John could very well bleed out in mere moments.

With the wound cleaned out as best he could, Carson stood back as a nurse swabbed the area thoroughly with iodine and carefully laid a sterile drape over John's abdomen. The drape left the area of the wound exposed, a stark square of pale white flesh, stained orange with disinfectant, and the ugly, jagged piece of metal rising up out of the ragged hole it had made for itself. Blood continued to ooze sluggishly from the wound. The operating theatre was quiet now, a hushed sense of anticipation seeming to settle on the medical team. The repeated sigh of the ventilator seemed unnaturally loud in the silence. Carson looked round at his team and nodded. Everyone was ready.

* * *

The waiting room was beginning to feel claustrophobic. Elizabeth felt like she'd been waiting there for hours. Far too regular glances at her watch told her it had been much less than that and yet time seemed to have stretched and slowed and she would be sure that 20 minutes had passed only to check her watch – again – and find that only a minute or two had crawled by. She stood up in a sudden motion, restless energy burning through her veins, and began to pace. How many times had she been here, in this situation? Waiting outside the infirmary for news that someone under her command, someone whom _she_ had sent out on a mission, someone who was only in this galaxy in the first place because _she_ had chosen them was going to live… or to die. How many times? They'd been through so much in the last year and more – and lost so many. And come close more times than she cared to think about. How many times had she been here waiting for news of John? She'd come to depend on him so much; not just in the performance of his duties, as ranking military officer, as her 2IC, but on his friendship, on his easygoing charm, the way he could bring a smile to her face even in the direst of situations, the darkest of moments. He had put himself on the line for her and for Atlantis time and time again, had killed 60 men to save the city – save her - and now death had come stalking him again, here in Atlantis itself.

When she heard the infirmary doors hush open behind her, for a moment she was almost afraid to turn, to accept the responsibility of knowing for sure which way fate had turned, her heart pounding suddenly loud in her ears. She almost laughed with bitter relief when she saw it was not Beckett who stood in the doorway but the nurse who had accompanied McKay to the infirmary. It was no kind of reprieve to be left once again to the agonizing wait and yet a part of her relished not having to let go of the luxury of hope just yet. The nurse could nonetheless see the question in her eyes and she shook her head with a regretful smile.

"I'm sorry, Dr Weir. No news as yet."

She looked round at the empty waiting room. "I thought you might prefer some company though…?" she asked gently.

* * *

Rodney McKay was watching the doors to the surgical suite. He had not looked round when the infirmary doors slid open with their distinctive hush, he had ignored the muted conversation in the background, he hadn't reacted when the doors slid closed again. Rodney was waiting. Waiting for news.

He didn't look away when a shadow fell over the bed, was hardly aware of a voice speaking his name, it was only when a hand rested gently on his, stilling their constant motion, that he came to himself enough to take note of his surroundings.

"Elizabeth!"

Surprise made his voice high and ragged. Surprise and the smoke and god knows what other crap he'd inhaled in the aftermath of the explosion, that was all. It had nothing to do with the solid lump in his chest, the one he couldn't seem to breathe around.

Dr Weir's face was tight with the same fear and dread that made his throat feel strained and sore. She smiled reassurance at him and for a moment he envied her her self-control, her ability to be strong for others. Rodney wasn't strong. He.. he panicked and he blustered but he wasn't strong. In that dark, cluttered corridor Rodney had tried to be strong for John but it wasn't enough, he was so terribly afraid that it wasn't enough. He was trying to hold on to hope but in his mind's eye all he could see was the blood oozing and pulsing through his clenched fingers, draining away John's life no matter how hard he tried to stop it. Even as he sat here in fresh, clean scrubs, propped up on pillows in a medical bed, he shivered with goose bumps as the skin on his legs still tried to cringe away from the remembered sensation of warm, sticky, blood-soaked fabric clinging to them. Somewhere deep inside, pushed down into the farthest recesses of his consciousness, he suspected that John wasn't going to make it this time. Rodney was deathly afraid that a part of him had given up hope. And that fear felt like betrayal - felt like he'd failed Sheppard.

"How are you, Rodney?"

Elizabeth's voice startled him out of his absorption and he dragged his eyes away from the doors, putting on a brave face as he met her concerned gaze.

"I'm fine," he assured her shortly. "I'm not the one we need to be worrying about."

The nurse was fussing around nearby, hovering rather less than inconspicuously, and Rodney threw her an irritated glare as she chose to add her opinion on matters.

"He has a nasty bump to the head," she informed Dr Weir mildly, "though thankfully no concussion. It'll be sore for a while but there are no neurological complications. He was very lucky…"

"Oh yes," Rodney muttered, surprising himself with the bitterness evident in his tone. "Lucky Dr McKay. Yes, it's been a great day all in all…."

He clamped his mouth shut as he became aware of Elizabeth's quizzical look.

"He's got some minor smoke inhalation and he's somewhat dehydrated and exhausted." The nurse continued prattling on in the background and Rodney turned his attention back to the doors beyond which a life was being saved… or slipping away. "More than anything he needs a good rest and he'll be just fine…"

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence and Rodney tensed.

The nurse's voice was quiet, subdued. "He won't let me clean up his hands."

Tattle-tale.

Rodney looked down at his hands. They were stained a dull rusted colour now as the smeared blood had dried and flaked. Elizabeth's hand still rested atop his, her skin white and flawless against the evidence of his struggle to be strong, to save John.

"Rodney?"

He set his mouth and turned his gaze back to the doors. All he could do now was wait.

Elizabeth's voice was as gentle as her hands as she lifted his from the blankets. "Come on Rodney, let's get this cleaned up."

He didn't look at her for a long time as the nurse brought her a damp cloth and she carefully wiped away the traces of his struggle. She perched on the bed beside him as she cleaned one hand at a time, her touch gentle as she carefully smoothed the warm cloth over the skin between his fingers where the blood – so much blood – and dirt had caked and crusted. Rodney watched the doors and waited.

As she placed his hand back on the blanket Rodney turned his head suddenly and caught her solemn gaze.

"I really tried, you know" His voice was calm, quiet. His heart was thundering in his chest.

"I know," she smiled. "You did good, Rodney. Real good."

He nodded abruptly, suddenly unable to meet her eyes.

She stayed perched on the bed beside him as he turned his attention back to the doors that held the answers to how his life would be from today onwards.

All they could do was wait.

* * *

Carson wrapped a hand – double-gloved to help cushion against the sharp metal edges - carefully around the jagged piece of shrapnel and gave a cautious, preparatory tug. It didn't move. "Okay," he sighed. "It looks like this isnae gonna come out easy, ladies and gentleman." His team were tensed, ready to move quickly, as he gently gripped the shrapnel in both hands.

"Ready?"

He didn't try to jerk the metal free from the wound, rather he steadily increased an upward pressure, slowly lifting the metal towards him, away from the torn flesh. Blood trickled from the wound, soaking the edges of the surgical drapes, turning the blue fabric a dark, ugly purple stain. Carson's arms began to shake. The mangled flesh clung to the metal, sucking it down even as he pulled gently, firmly upwards. He felt the pressure give slightly and an inch or so of bloodied metal rose out of the wound. Blood welled around it. His staff were moving concisely around him, suctioning the blood to keep his view clear, hanging a further bag of type-specific – dear god, he'd lost count of how many pints they'd poured into the poor lad now – monitoring vital signs.

He gritted his teeth as he increased the pull, slowly and steadily. A silence descended on the room as everyone tensed in anticipation.. sooner or later something had to give. Finally, shockingly, suddenly, something did. With a wet, sucking sound the jagged piece of metal suddenly pulled free from the wound, the release of pressure so sudden that Carson staggered backwards, the large chunk of shrapnel gripped awkwardly in his hands.

Before he had time even to think a spray of blood spattered across the front of his scrubs and alarms began to blare loudly. His team were rushing to action even as he dropped the metal hastily to the floor. It was as he had feared; blood was fountaining from the open wound and suddenly there were out of time.

"Arterial bleed!"

"Pressure's dropping!"

The room descended into chaos.

"Suction and clamps please!" Carson ordered tightly, regretting the mere seconds it took for him to be handed his tools. Right now, fractions of a second could mean the difference between life and death for John Sheppard.

* * *

_TBC…._


	6. Recovery

_A/N: Thanks hugely to everyone who has taken the time to review – your feedback is much appreciated!_

_Things are calming down a bit in this chapter and there's a bit less blood and gore – but the angst still continues._

_I've restrained myself from doing the evil cliffie this time – thought I'd better give you guys a break from the stress! – but we still don't know how things are going to turn out… poor, poor Shep! Multiple POVs again in this chapter, hope you enjoy it._

_As ever, please review and let me know your thoughts._

_P.S. Just for you Linzi – more of Sheppy nekkid and under a sheet in the infirmary:D

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McKay felt like he'd been waiting here in the infirmary forever. Time had slowed to a crawl and his life beyond those infirmary doors, his work, his responsibilities as head of the science teams, seemed like a distant memory. All he could focus on was the here and now; the wait. The nurse had tried to encourage him to rest, citing his exhaustion and concussion. He had snapped at her harshly and felt no regret at her hurt expression. Elizabeth, ever the negotiator, had chided him gently, reminding him that the woman was only doing her job. He had been as smug and condescending as he knew how when he told Elizabeth _and_ that foolish woman that he didn't care what her job was, that under the circumstances it had been a ridiculous, _stupid_ suggestion and anyone with half a brain could see that. The nurse had been offended but the look in Elizabeth's eyes had told him wordlessly that she'd heard more than arrogance and spite in his outburst, that she understood his pain and his anger because she felt it too. He'd turned away from that understanding gaze and set his chin resolutely, defiantly ignoring Elizabeth's muted attempt at mollification, saying nothing when the nurse finally left the room. So far, she had yet to return.

Elizabeth had tried a few times since then to engage him in conversation but between his brusque, noncommittal responses and their shared preoccupation with the stubbornly closed doors through to the surgical suite they had eventually fallen silent. Elizabeth still sat half on the bed beside him, one hip perched awkwardly on the mattress, one foot still on the floor. At some point as they waited for news she had laid her hand on his and left it there. He had let her.

The silence in the room was thick, oppressive.

The wait was interminable. Not knowing was intolerable. Rodney felt stretched so thin and so tight that if something didn't happen soon he would surely snap.

He'd been waiting so long that when the doors finally slid open he physically started, his hand reflexively squeezing Elizabeth's. Her hand tightened around his in response. For a moment relief warred with apprehension and Rodney realised that, awful as the wait had been, there was no going back from this moment. In that instant, not knowing seemed a glorious luxury and he briefly wished he could freeze time, stay in this moment forever and not _have_ to know. Then Carson walked through the doors and Rodney swore he could physically feel his heart stop. He felt suddenly dizzy and heard his own whispered words as though from far, far away, lost in the roaring in his ears. "Oh god.."

* * *

Carson was exhausted. The pressure of a trauma situation was intense, draining, and the level of concentration required was relentless. As he stepped out of the operating theatre he could feel himself beginning to crash; he fancied he could physically feel the adrenaline draining from his system as soon as he finally let the tension relax. But he had no time to rest yet; his work was far from over and there were people waiting on him, waiting for news. They were relying on him – and god only knew what awful fears must have been running through their minds as they waited for so long with no word.

Fatigue made him clumsy and it took him two attempts to swipe his hand past the sensor to open the doors into the main part of the infirmary. The first thing he saw on stepping through the doors was Rodney and Elizabeth, he dressed in scrubs and propped up in one of the infirmary beds, Dr Weir perched beside him, her hand clasped in his. The second thing he saw was the expression on their faces. Elizabeth's mouth was set in a tight, grim line and Rodney was a white as a sheet, looking for all the world like he was going to pass out at any moment. Tired as he was, it took a moment for comprehension to hit him and Carson looked from their stunned faces to glance down at himself in horror – emotionally exhausted and physically drained, in his well-meaning desire to update them on the situation as soon as possible, he had walked into the infirmary without even stripping off his soiled scrubs. He stood before them drenched in Sheppard's blood.

"Oh god!" He pulled frantically at the fastenings, ripping the bloodied gown from his chest with clumsy fingers even as he stepped quickly forward, trying to forestall the despair he saw in their eyes. "Ah'm sorry. Ah'm such an idiot, I didnae even think!" Fatigue and panic made his accent thicker as he tossed the dirty garment to one side, rushing to find words to calm their fears.

"It's not what ya think…"

"Is he dead?" Rodney's voice was thick, filled with a sick hopelessness that twisted at Beckett's heart.

"No. No, Rodney, he's not dead." Carson forced calm into his voice.

It took a moment for his words to sink in and Rodney seemed to visibly deflate as he finally registered what he was being told. He sank back against the piled-up pillows, colour flushing his cheeks as he breathed out, "Oh thank god." Elizabeth's relieved smile was enough to light the room and Carson's heart felt heavy with the knowledge that he had to dampen that enthusiasm. He took Rodney's hand in his and checked his pulse; the man's heart was racing, his hand trembling minutely in Carson's grip.

"He's out of surgery," he told them and he could see Elizabeth's smile dim at his non-committal tone.

He looked from one to the other, his colleagues, his _friends_, and he saw them take in the seriousness of his expression. Elizabeth's hand tightened around Rodney's.

"We managed to remove the shrapnel and stop the bleeding," he told them, "but I'll no lie to you. He's in a bad way."

"He lost a lot of blood and required massive transfusion. The injury to his abdomen is severe. The shrapnel severed an artery and he bled out during surgery."

He was brutally honest with them. "We almost lost him."

Elizabeth's voice was tight, artificially calm, and he could almost feel how fragile her control was right now. "What is his prognosis, Carson?"

Beckett sighed. He hated this.

"He's stable for now but he's weak. Very weak. His breathing function deteriorated during transport to the infirmary so he's on a ventilator… he's had to be resuscitated twice…" his voice trailed off as he saw the light of hope begin to fade from their eyes.

He rubbed a hand across his face tiredly, taking a moment to close his eyes, his fingers pinching at the bridge of his nose. He couldn't remember the last time he felt this tired.

They were waiting for him when he opened his eyes, their emotions worn thin, their hopes and fears writ large on their faces. For Carson, dealing with the family and friends of patients was the hardest part of being a doctor. He cared a lot, some would say too much, and found it hard to detach himself from the emotional aspects of the case. And now, here in Atlantis, so far away from home, the members of the expedition were like a family. How much harder then to give the harsh truth to his patient's friends and family when they were _his_ family too, when the patient was _his_ friend as well? Some people would call his emotional attachment a flaw, a fault that made him an imperfect doctor. He'd expressed this opinion to Dr Weir in the past and he remembered her response as he spoke to her now; she'd told him that his ability to care was what made him a good person and a great physician – and had played a large part in why she had chosen him for this mission. He held on to that thought as he did his best to reassure them.

"The next 24 hours will be critical. He's holding his own for now but his body has been through a lot. He's weak and in shock and the kind of massive blood transfusion we've been forced to give him carries its own risks. We'll monitor him closely, try to deal with any complications as they arise."

He could see his own fears and hopes reflected in their eyes.

"The Colonel's a strong lad," he told them, a certain pride in his voice "He's a fighter. If he can make it through the night then he's got a good chance."

"Thank you, Carson. I know you'll take good care of him." Elizabeth's voice was quiet, calm, and her smile was genuine. Her faith in him made him all the more determined to live up to her belief in his abilities.

"Can we see him?" Rodney was pale, exhausted, his chin jutting out as he spoke, anticipating Carson's response.

Beckett tried to hedge his answer, "Rodney, you're clearly exhausted.."

"And I'm not going to get any rest sitting here worrying, am I?" McKay interrupted sharply. Carson didn't miss the slight squeeze Elizabeth gave the scientist's hand and the look that passed between them.

"Please Carson," Elizabeth pushed. "Just for a moment?"

He sighed.

"Just a minute or two," he relented. He held up a hand as Rodney threw back the blankets impatiently. "And you're not walking anywhere! I'll have Nurse Miller bring a wheelchair."

"I'm fine!" McKay protested but Carson was having none of it. "I'll not have you keeling over from exhaustion, Rodney. It's been a _very_ long day and I've a lot of work still to do – so you can go by wheelchair or you can stay where ye are."

McKay would have argued but Elizabeth took one look at Dr Beckett's stern face and intervened. Faced with a united front, Rodney grudgingly acquiesced and they followed Carson into recovery with Elizabeth pushing Rodney's wheelchair.

* * *

The steady beep of the heart monitor and the slow, repetitive hissssss-click of the ventilator were the only sounds in the recovery room. The atmosphere was subdued and even the medical staff seemed to feel it, Carson's voice dropping to an almost whisper as he reminded them, "A minute or two and that's all. I mean it."

Elizabeth's heart was pounding in her ears as she slowly pushed McKay's wheelchair forwards, the thundering drowning out the silence that lay like a heavy blanket over the room. The silence was more than an absence of sound, it was a living, breathing thing, a tension in the air. It was the sound of a life hanging by a thread.

She heard McKay's indrawn breath as they approached the Colonel's bed and she found her hands gripping tight to the handles of the chair, helping steady her as the air seemed to rush from her lungs.

John looked terrible.

The man who was so full of life and energy, who had laughed and joked with her only that morning in her office, who had physically fought to protect his team and this city on more occasions than she could recall, was reduced to a pale and fragile form, lost in the confines of a hospital bed, draped loosely with a crisp, white sheet and surrounded by more wires and cables and tubes and monitors and equipment than she had thought possible. All of this, she thought helplessly, it's taking all of this just to keep him alive.

His face was obscured by the mass of twisting tubes attached to the hard plastic connector that filled his mouth, allowing air to be pushed into his lungs through the tube that stretched down his throat, keeping his airway open. His bare chest rose and fell in time to the rhythmic hiss of the ventilator, his skin unnaturally pale and dotted with the adhesive pads of an array of monitors.

She watched as Carson moved gently around the bed, checking readings on monitors, still working to keep John with them. Rodney, for once, was silent.

John had survived the explosion, the desperate wait for help to reach them. He'd survived the trip back to the infirmary, blood loss, respiratory failure, two attempts to revive him with the defibrillator, an arterial bleed. He'd survived surgery.

Only time would tell if he would survive the night.

Once again, all they could do was wait.

* * *

_TBC..._


	7. Holding On

_Sorry for the delay in updating this fic – you can blame a combination of real life (it gets in the way so much!) and NTL (yeah, when you pay for a constant 2MB broadband connection ya kinda expect to have a constant internet connection – you know, one that doesn't cut out every 3 minutes!)._

_Anyway, lots more angst in this chapter, quite a bit of Carson introspection and… the return of the evil cliffhanger bunny! Sorry:)_

_As ever, please review and let me know your thoughts – all constructive criticism gladly received!

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Pain. Pain and confusion. That was John's only reality. He held onto the pain as something real, something tangible in a world that didn't make sense. Everything was dark. There was noise – beeping and hissing and chattering. And pain. It burned. It growled and it screamed and it ached. Sensation was jumbled, confused, but the pain was constant. The pain was real. He tried to move, to curl around the pain but his body wouldn't obey him. He tried to turn his head but something held it in place, something hard and uncomfortable filling his mouth, his throat. He panicked, feeling himself beginning to choke.

* * *

Carson stood patiently by Sheppard's bedside, carefully noting the readouts from various monitors on his patient's chart. The infirmary was dark, deserted. Aside from himself and the nurse currently on the night-shift rotation assigned to monitor Sheppard, this particular corner of Atlantis slept. Carson had a strong suspicion that, in other parts of the city, some members of the expedition would be getting little in the way of sleep tonight - but they were not in the infirmary, they were outside of his purview, and he had enough to worry about right here. He tore off a slip of paper as it finished printing out from the heart monitor and studied the readout carefully. Sheppard's blood chemistry was chaotic after such massive blood loss and transfusion and close monitoring was vital. There was so much that could still go wrong..

The recovery room was gloomy, the main lights turned down in deference to the late hour, and the only real illumination came from the bright lights around Sheppard's bed that allowed Beckett and his staff to keep a close eye on their patient. The Colonel's bed was an island of light and noise – the steady beep of the monitors, the rhythmic hissing of the ventilator – in the hushed darkness of the room. Carson sometimes thought it odd that, even here on Atlantis, in a different galaxy, orbiting a different sun on a planet with a different circadian rhythm from anything they had known before, these early, small hours of the morning still engendered in humans an instinctive, respectful hush. The knowledge of the seriousness of Sheppard's condition somehow seemed to add to the pervasive silence in the recovery room… everyone who had entered this room since the Colonel had been brought out of surgery had, without prompting, kept their voices respectfully low, as if afraid to awaken or disturb him. Some morbid part of Carson's subconscious wondered if some ancient human instinct could sense how fragile the man's hold on life was right now, and drove people to fearful caution lest any sudden sound might startle him into losing that tenuous grip.

The room was still and quiet enough that Beckett himself was startled by the noise of the doors from the infirmary sliding open. Marie, the nurse on duty, gave him an apologetic smile as she slipped quietly into the room. Pretty, petite and French, she was a sweet, gentle soul who was very popular with the patients. Luckily for Carson, she was also an excellent nurse and incredibly dedicated to her work. He was glad of her unquestioning support tonight.

"How's Rodney?" he whispered. Odd how the atmosphere affected even he, who was ostensibly in control of everything in this room.

"Still sleeping," she answered softly, a hint of an accent giving her words a musical lilt. Carson nodded. Despite his physical and mental exhaustion, McKay had fought stubbornly against sleep, never achieving more than a restless half-doze and constantly waking to demand progress reports on Sheppard. Eventually he'd become so restless and agitated that, for his own good, Beckett had chosen to sedate him, allowing the scientist to finally achieve some much-needed rest.

Rest was a luxury that, right now, Carson himself could not afford. Sheppard was hanging on to life but he was still dangerously weak and his condition could change rapidly. All they could do for now was monitor closely and make sure that they were ready to deal with any crisis as it arose – and, as Chief Medical Officer, the responsibility was his. The fact that John Sheppard was a friend made him all the more determined to be here for his friend for as long as he was needed. They were not going to lose Sheppard if it were in any way in his power to prevent it and it would not be for lack of effort or preparedness on his part – or any of his medical team.

Marie was gently carefully checking the IV port in Sheppard's left hand when Carson suddenly looked up from his notes, some kind of sixth sense picking up on a change in his patient seconds before the heart-rate monitor registered a sudden increase in heartbeat, the steady, rhythmic beeps abruptly picking up speed.

"What the..?" Carson dropped the charts carelessly onto a nearby chair and leant urgently over his patient. There was a tension to muscles that had previously been limp and relaxed. A hint of a frown creased John's forehead and, even as Beckett looked on in amazement, Sheppard's eyelids began to flutter.

"Oh my god!" Carson was stunned. "He's awake!"

At that moment alarms blared as John began to struggle weakly, his throat convulsing helplessly as he gagged on the invasive tube.

Beckett was efficiency in motion. "He's fighting the ventilator. Marie, Ativan please, as quickly as you can!"

"Colonel Sheppard? You're in the infirmary, Colonel. You're on a ventilator to help you breathe – I know it's uncomfortable but it's necessary for the moment. John? I need you to stay calm for me, son…"

Marie was injecting the relaxant into Sheppard's IV even as Carson spoke. The Colonel was barely conscious and Beckett had no idea if the man could even hear him, let alone make sense of what he was being told. He kept talking nonetheless, keeping the tone of his voice low and soothing, his words reassuring. "It's okay, son.. you're gonnae be just fine. That's it, just calm down now…"

John's weak movements calmed as Carson kept a reassuring hand on the Colonel's shoulder, the Ativan quickly draining the fight from him, relaxing his muscles, counteracting the panic-fuelled spike of adrenalin that had pushed his heart rate up. The alarms stilled as John stopped resisting the steady push of the ventilator and his heart rate slowly dropped before once again stabilising. Carson breathed a sigh of relief as he carefully checked the various monitors. Sheppard's heart rate had dipped low and was still lower than Beckett would like but it would do.. for now. John's eyes were closed now, his face relaxed, almost serene, as Marie gently pressed a clean cloth to his forehead, blotting away the sheen of sweat from his skin. The concern was clear in her eyes as she regarded Carson across the width of the hospital bed.

"Dr Beckett? Should 'e be waking up like this..?"

Carson sighed. "No, lass." He shook his head in wonder. "Between blood loss, shock and the anaesthesia from surgery he should be out for hours yet."

Beckett couldn't help a small, rueful smile. "But the Colonel is nothing if not stubborn, Marie." Experience had taught him that. For the first time since he'd begun this desperate fight to save Colonel Sheppard's life, a battle in which they seemed to be dangerously outgunned, fighting a desperate rearguard action right from the start, Carson felt a cautious flame of hope burn in his heart. The Colonel was stubborn alright; he was a fighter. Maybe, just maybe, he'd pull through this.

* * *

McKay awoke slowly, in increments; sound and smell filtering in with consciousness following slowly behind. A hushed silence and a hint of antiseptic in the air. Infirmary. His head felt like it was packed with cotton wool and there was a nasty, metallic taste in his mouth. He groaned. Becket. Beckett and his damn drugs. He cursed the Scot for slipping him a mickey. Gaaah. He felt woozy as hell. How long had he been out?..

Rodney's eyes snapped open. Sheppard. My god, how could he have slept while Sheppard was hanging on to life by his fingernails? What the hell was the time? He struggled to sit up, his aching muscles protesting the movement. Whoah. His head spun for a moment, exhaustion and his sudden exertion combining in a nasty moment of hypotension that left him dizzy and shaking. He rubbed the heel of his hand into his eyes, blinking myopically until the dancing spots cleared from his vision.

There was no time for this. He'd been asleep for god knows how long and who knew what might have happened to Sheppard during that time? He'd never forgive himself if… He pushed that thought down ruthlessly and set his jaw, untangling his legs from the bed sheets and swinging them over the side of the mattress. His legs very nearly buckled when he put his weight on them but a firm grip on the bed kept him upright – well, mostly – and after a minute or two he was able to walk. He might have been a bit wobbly, sure, and he ached all over… but he was walking. He was thankful that at least that interfering busybody of a nurse had seen fit to put him in scrubs rather than a gown.

The doors to the recovery room opened onto a scene of chaos. Sheppard's bed was the center of a maelstrom of activity, medical staff moving urgently around the bed and it's surrounding equipment, voices shouting out information in a confusing babble of medical jargon. McKay's heart sank, the same sick, cold fear he'd felt in the rubble-strewn corridor welling up inside of him as he stood frozen in the doorway. Sheppard was dying. Déjà vu.

"_QRS widening!"_

"_Push 5ml calcium gluconate stat!"_

"_Sinus arrest!"_

Rodney couldn't move, could barely breathe. Time seemed to slow down to a crawl. He felt removed, distant, like he was watching the scene before him from the bottom of a deep, black well… and the only sound that could reach him in that cold, dark place was the awful, shrill scream of the flatline.

* * *

_TBC..._


	8. Consequences

_Jeepers. I struggled with this chapter. It's kind of a filler chapter – not really a lot happening but it was needed to move the story along and explain in more detail some of what's been going on._

_Shep's pretty much in the background in this section (though the guy's had a tough time of it recently so let's just let him have a bit of a rest eh?) but we've got some Mckay whumpage for you and some more Beckett and Weir introspection. And, oh look! It's Teyla and Ronon! Where have they been all this time:D_

_Still not too sure about this chapter – please review and let me know what you think of it. _

_Next chappy will be bringing back the Shep whumpage… and some more Sheppy blood:D

* * *

_

"Rodney?"

"_Rodney!"_

McKay physically started as fingers snapped right in front of his eyes. "Whaa?" Carson's face looked oddly blurred.

"What are you doin' out of bed, Rodney?" Beckett's voice seemed to come from far away, echoing strangely.

McKay felt odd. Disconnected. A tight fist clenched around his heart.

"Sheppard…" Was that his voice? It sounded so faint… wobbly.

There was a note of quiet concern in Carson's voice, his words deliberately soft and reassuring. "He's ok, Rodney. We got him back. He's ok.."

McKay's gaze was drawn irresistibly over Beckett's shoulder, back to where medical staff still clustered around Sheppard's bed. The sense of urgency in the atmosphere seemed to have faded and the staff were calm, no longer shouting to each other. What had happened? Rodney realised he couldn't actually recall the last few minutes and a moment of panic sent adrenalin flooding through him before Beckett's calm, repeated words finally registered..

He felt his knees go weak with relief. "He's alive?"

"Yes, Rodney. He's still alive. We got him back.." Carson's hands were firm on his shoulders, the doctor turning him back towards the main infirmary.

"He's alive…." McKay imagined he could physically feel the awful, cold fear draining from him. It took all his energy with it and suddenly his legs could no longer bear his weight. He barely felt Caron's arms tightening around him, controlling his descent, laying him carefully on the infirmary floor.

* * *

"Och, Rodney. What am I gonnae do with you?"

Carson crouched over the slumped form of Dr McKay, his face creased in mild exasperation. He could understand Rodney's fear, his need to check on Sheppard, but the man was exhausted and overwrought and in no shape to be wandering the infirmary. And of course he'd wandered into the recovery room at precisely the worst possible moment, just as hyperkalaemia had pushed Sheppard into a further cardiac arrest. In the flurry of activity Beckett had not even noticed McKay standing shell-shocked in the doorway until the crisis had passed and one of his team had pulled Carson's attention away from his critical patient, pointing out the frozen, pale form of Rodney standing motionless in the background, his vacant-looking gaze focused on the Colonel's bed.

Reasonably happy that Sheppard was stabilised, for now, Carson had left his team to clear up the detritus of their latest victory over death and had approached Rodney cautiously. A first year med student could have seen that McKay was in shock. The man had been white as a sheet and seemed to be staying upright through sheer force of will alone, his unseeing gaze locked on the activity around Sheppard's bed. In one swift glance Carson had taken in the clammy skin, shallow respirations and the fine tremors in McKay's hands and revised his diagnosis accordingly. Add hypoglycaemia to the list of complaints, he'd decided.

Rodney had been unresponsive when Carson had spoken to him and had been confused and disoriented when he had finally snapped out his daze. A collapse had been pretty much a foregone conclusion and Beckett had tried to steer the scientist back towards the safety of his infirmary bed but McKay had suddenly just folded, Carson barely having time to grab hold of him before he hit the infirmary floor.

"As if I havenae enough to worry about without you making yourself ill.." Carson gently chided the unconscious Rodney as a nurse hurried over with a gurney.

Beckett stood back as his team carefully lifted Dr McKay onto the gurney ready to wheel him back into the main infirmary. He felt a momentary pang of guilt at abandoning Rodney to the care of others but, as Elizabeth kept reminding him, he could only do so much at any one time.. and McKay would be fine. Bed rest, fluids and plenty to eat and he would bounce right back. Sheppard, on the other hand… Sheppard was still very much in need of Beckett's attention. He contented himself with giving instructions on Rodney's care to his second in command.

"Make sure you check his blood sugar levels. I've no idea when he last ate and I suspect we're dealing with an element of hypoglycaemia here on top of everything else.."

Beckett knew his team were perfectly competent and didn't need him to tell them how to care for their patient but he worried anyway. His staff knew him well enough now and they let him fuss, nodding their heads tolerantly as he told them what they already knew. When Carson caught one of the nurses smothering a smile he stopped lecturing, a rueful, if somewhat tired, grin on his face.

"Oh away wi' ye then, enough o my fussin'!" He shooed them off into the infirmary, trusting them to get McKay settled and looked after, leaving him to concentrate on the job of keeping John Sheppard alive.

* * *

Dr Weir was waiting in the gate room when the stargate exploded into life, the event horizon flooding outwards in a burst of power before settling into that familiar, fascinating puddle of energy that lit the whole room with ripples of light. No matter how many times she saw the wormhole open, the sight never failed to amaze and absorb her. It was beautiful… and yet it was also a source of constant danger and threat. Much like Atlantis itself - beautiful, fascinating, absorbing and yet deadly. There was so much of the city they had yet to explore, had yet to understand; technology so far in advance of their own that they had no way to know if it would help or harm them. And beyond that, the mere existence of Atlantis represented possibly the greatest threat to Earth.. if the Wraith should ever take the city, ever gain access to the ancient database and find a way to Earth…

She couldn't help the sombre direction of her thoughts… only the previous day Atlantis had again proven how dangerous she could be. Even without the overt threat of looming danger, even when they had thought themselves safe for just a moment, they were again caught by surprise.. and now her military commander lay close to death in the infirmary, kept alive by machines… and, she suspected, by sheer John Sheppard stubbornness.

Elizabeth had been at the infirmary almost before first light that morning. She had barely slept anyway and would probably have called in even earlier for a progress report if it weren't for the strong suspicion that Beckett would probably give her a stern lecture on getting enough rest and very possibly threaten to sedate her.

The infirmary had still been in near darkness when she had entered, the first tinges of sunlight just beginning to turn the clouds crimson and orange over the horizon outside. A nurse sitting by Rodney's bed had looked up and nodded in greeting as the doors slid shut behind her.

"How is he?" McKay had seemed to be fast asleep but Elizabeth couldn't help whispering as she spoke to the nurse.

"He's doing fine. He just needs plenty of rest." The nurse had gestured to the half-empty bag hanging from the IV pole. " We've started him on a glucose drip to counteract the hypoglycaemia."

"Hypoglycaemia?" Another thread of fear had wrapped tighter around Elizabeth's heart. Rodney had seemed fine earlier…

The nurse had smiled ruefully. "It seems Dr McKay decided to go wandering in the middle of the night instead of resting as he was supposed to. He had something of an episode but he'll be fine."

Elizabeth's throat had felt strangely tight and she had had to clear her throat before speaking.. but her voice had still sounded hoarse and unnatural to her ears.

"And Colonel Sheppard?"

She had seen understanding in the nurse's eyes. Sheppard was well-liked by almost all on Atlantis. This wasn't easy on any of them. "Dr Beckett is in with him now. Why don't you go on through?"

She'd found Carson hovering over Sheppard's bed, a nurse at his side as he took readings from the various monitors. He'd looked up from his work as the doors hushed open and she had taken a moment to study her CMO. He looked exhausted. Beckett had given her a tired smile as she had approached the bed, anticipating her question.

"He's hanging in there, Elizabeth."

She'd nodded, her eyes drawn irresistibly to the pale, still form of her 2IC.

"How are you holding up?" she'd asked quietly.

Carson's face had been drawn and tired, the fatigue evident in his warm, blue eyes. "It's been a long night," he'd admitted.

"The Colonel developed hyperkalaemia.. it's a relatively common side-effect with massive blood transfusion. We tried to correct it with drugs but it progressed too rapidly and he went into sinus arrest."

Elizabeth's mouth had been dry as she'd listened to Carson explain how they'd managed to bring John back from the brink of death, yet again. She was beginning to wonder how much longer this could go on, how much one body could take.

A disturbance in the shimmering wall of light brought Elizabeth's attention back to the present. The event horizon rippled as Teyla and Ronon stepped through, closely followed by a small group of Athosians, all of them carrying sacks of grain and baskets of vegetables, the fruits of what looked to have been a very successful trading mission on Teyla's part. The Athosian leader's ready smile changed to a frown as Elizabeth stepped forward to greet them. Ronon had already dropped his sack of grain to the floor, his hand unconsciously straying to his holstered gun. Trained warriors, both of them; their instincts told them immediately that Dr Weir meeting them like this could not mean good news.

"Dr Weir?" Teyla's gaze was questioning, Ronon's typically stoic, and Elizabeth hesitated for a moment, wondering how on earth to phrase this, how to break the news to the members of John's team. The decision was swiftly taken out of her hands.

"What's wrong?" Ronon was a man of few words and he had little tolerance for prevarication.

Elizabeth swallowed. "It's Colonel Sheppard. There was an accident… Ronon!"

The Satedan was already off and running, heedless of her shout, heading instinctively to the infirmary, and Elizabeth turned back to Teyla with a sigh. The Athosian's concern was clear on her face. One did not become a leader of people, a trader and negotiator, and not learn how to read people. Despite her outward calm, Elizabeth was certain Teyla could see right through her, could see the fear that sat like a cold weight in her stomach.

Though Teyla's voice was soft, the tension was evident in her words. "Dr Weir? Colonel Sheppard is.. injured?" Elizabeth couldn't help but pick up on the minute hesitation and she rushed to allay those unspoken fears.

"Yes. There was an explosion in the labs… Colonel Sheppard was caught in the blast…"

Teyla's face was unreadable. "It is.. serious?"

Elizabeth nodded. "I'm afraid so."

"And Dr McKay?"

Elizabeth could help but smile at that. Trust Teyla to know that, if Sheppard had been in the labs, then he'd been there with McKay.

"He'll be fine. A nasty bump to the head is all.." The smile died as quickly as it had come. "Colonel Sheppard pushed him clear of the blast."

Teyla nodded. "And what of the Colonel?"

Elizabeth sighed. "He took the full force of the blast.."

She could see that Teyla was as eager as Ronon had been to get to the infirmary and see the Colonel for herself and Elizabeth understood that need. Sheppard's team were a close-knit unit, sharing a comradeship and concern for each other that came from working so closely together, protecting each other in a galaxy full of unexpected dangers.

"Dr Beckett can explain better than I.."

The Athosian leader inclined her head gracefully, acknowledging both Elizabeth's words and the unspoken intent behind them.

"Thank you. For being the one to bring us this news."

Elizabeth could only nod as Teyla left the gate room at a brisk walk.

* * *

_TBC…._


	9. Side Effects

_Wow this turned out to be another longish chapter – and, especially for Linzi and SLC, now featuring more Sheppy blood :)_

_This story seems to be dragging on forever but rest assured time is slowly passing and now that we have the whole team back together again I think things are gonna start to skip along a bit faster.. and maybe.. just maybe, Sheppy might start to feel better soon? Whaddaya think? Oh and lookit, I managed to resist the temptation to do another cliffhanger:)_

_As ever, please do review and let me know your thoughts…_

* * *

Rodney McKay was awoken by the murmur of voices.

"Where's Sheppard?"

A deep rumble of a voice. He knew that voice. Ronon.

He stirred groggily. Can't be Ronon. Ronon was off-world. Ronon had gone with Teyla and the Athosians to trade with the Lenarans and he and Sheppard..

Memory flooded back in a heady rush. He opened his eyes to see a pale green, patterned ceiling and an IV pole with a nearly empty bag of solution hanging from it. A familiar pinched feeling at his elbow left him in no doubt as to what the IV was connected to. Oh god.. it wasn't a dream. He was still in the infirmary.. and Sheppard was still..-

"He's still in recovery.. Dr Beckett is..."

Rodney rolled his head gingerly to the side, still feeling somewhat drowsy and slow. Six foot plus of Satedan warrior loomed over the nurse who stood defiantly blocking the doors through to the surgical suite. Give the woman her due, she didn't seem to be remotely intimidated by the fierce ex-runner. Folding her arms stoically, she refused to give an inch.

"You'll have to wait." Her voice was as firm as her stance. She didn't flinch as Ronon's lips pulled back in something approaching a growl.

Rodney tried to speak but his mouth felt dry and sticky with sleep and all that came out was a whispered croak. The slight sound was enough to attract Ronon's attention, his loose dreadlocks swinging as he whipped his head round to pin McKay with his gaze. Rodney shrank back slightly under the intensity of that look. Jeez. Sometimes – okay, quite a lot of the time – Ronon scared Rodney.

"What happened to you?" Ronon's tone was terse, matter of fact.

McKay swallowed thickly and for once was pleased by the timely appearance of his overly-attentive nurse. She did the talking for him as she gently raised the bed up and held a cup of water to Rodney's parched lips.

"There was an explosion in the labs; Dr McKay received a slight head injury. He'll be fine with proper care and plenty of rest." McKay was surprised to see the nurse throw him a little teasing smile with that comment. For a moment he felt a little guilty for the way he'd spoken to her the previous day.

"What about Sheppard?"

Ronon's face was anything but smiling and the humour died from the nurse's face. "Colonel Sheppard's injuries were more severe.."

"He pushed me out of the way," McKay interrupted, his voice cracking. "The self-sacrificing _fool_ pushed me out of the way and got himself blown up!" He could hear an edge of hysteria creeping into his voice as he spoke and he clamped his mouth shut, dropping his gaze to stare woodenly at his hands clasped tightly on the pristine infirmary blankets. He didn't look up when the nurse laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. He liked it better when she was annoyed at him. He didn't want to see the sympathy in her eyes.

The sudden silence in the room was heavy. After a long moment the nurse's rubber-soled shoes squeaked on the floor as she walked away. The silence lingered and McKay wondered briefly if Ronon had left too – the man moved liked a damn cat, lithe and silent.

When McKay looked up Ronon was regarding him silently, appraisingly. Rodney had the unnerving feeling that Ronon was looking at him as if he'd never really seen him before. The runner hadn't moved from his position by the doors to the surgical suite. His face was as stoic and expressionless as ever but his eyes.. his eyes spoke of fear and pain, a lifetime of loss. Rodney wondered if a hint of that same fear showed in his own eyes. It seemed to McKay that they communicated without words, their shared concern for Colonel Sheppard forming a strange bond between these two most different of men, an understanding of each other that went beyond surface actions. Ronon nodded solemnly and, with a sudden hiss of a door opening, the silence, and the spell, in the room was broken. Ronon turned at the sound, breaking eye contact, and Rodney looked around to see Elizabeth and Teyla.

"Ronon?" There was bemusement on Teyla's face as she picked up on the lingering atmosphere in the room, her brow furrowing as she looked from Ronon to Rodney.

Ronon merely nodded to Teyla and turned back to his original objective, folding his arms stubbornly and fixing an intimidating glare on the nurse who still defended the entrance to the surgical room. "She won't let me see Sheppard," he rumbled coldly.

"Ronon.." Elizabeth stepped forward instinctively to mediate the situation and the nurse gratefully turned her gaze to the expedition leader. "I'm sorry Dr Weir, but Dr Beckett was quite clear in his instructions. Absolutely no visitors until he tells me otherwise."

Elizabeth nodded her understanding, resting a calming hand on the Satedan's arm. "Is there any news?" she queried, unable to keep a wistful note of hope from creeping into her voice.

The nurse's face was apologetic. "No real change since this morning. He had.." Rodney couldn't help but notice how the nurse's gaze flicked over to himself and away again in the minute pause before she continued, "a difficult night..."

A vague memory drifted unbidden into Rodney's mind, a jumble of images and sounds... confusion and shouting and the whine of a flatline, the snapping discharge of the defibrillator.. and Carson's voice, calling his name, telling him Sheppard was ok. His breath hitched in his chest. The images seemed disconnected, dreamlike. It wasn't a dream, was it?

"What do you mean "difficult night"? What happened?" he snapped, struggling to sit up in his bed. He could hear the edge of panic in his voice and he pushed down on that, trying to smother the fear.

His outburst had stopped all conversation and McKay saw immediately on Elizabeth's face that she knew to what he was referring. She _knew_.

Rodney swallowed, his heart in his mouth. "Did he...? His heart stopped, didn't it?" Elizabeth's expression was solemn, her concern for the Colonel writ large across her features. McKay felt sick.

"They had to resuscitate him again, didn't they?" he mumbled in horror, memories slowly crystallising. He'd gotten up in the early hours, hadn't he? Gone to check on Sheppard and seen... he'd seen... He had a sudden shaky recollection of Carson's soft brogue reassuring him that they'd "got him back".

Ronon and Teyla looked to Dr Weir for confirmation, Teyla's face registering her shock as realisation of the seriousness of Sheppard's condition sank in. Ronon expression was closed, his eyes shuttered, but Rodney found he had a new-found insight into the gruff Satedan. There was a controlled blankness to Ronon's expression, a rigid tension to his posture, that spoke volumes as to his state of mind. The former runner might not articulate it in words but it was clear to McKay that he cared about Sheppard as much as any of them.

The doors behind the nurse suddenly slid open and a weary Dr Beckett came to an abrupt halt, looking somewhat startled to find everyone grouped in the doorway.

"Carson.."

"Where's Sheppard?"

"Dr Beckett.."

"Is he ok!"

"Hold on just a minute!" Carson held up a hand to fend off the babble of voices as everyone spoke at once.

The doctor looked exhausted and it occurred to McKay that Carson had spent half the previous day battling to save Colonel Sheppard's life, had been there in the early hours of the morning when Sheppard had flatlined and was still here in the infirmary, still working hard to keep Sheppard alive. Rodney doubted the man had slept at all in more than 30 hours.

"Before you ask... the Colonel is holding his own." Carson took a moment to rub a tired hand across his face as Sheppard's team let out a collective breath they barely realised they'd been holding.

"Can we see him?" Ronon was the first to voice the question on all of their minds, his tone impatient.

Beckett hesitated and a cold, heavy weight settled in Rodney's stomach. Oh god. Something was wrong. What else was wrong now, dammit? If Sheppard died…. Oh god, if Sheppard died it would be _his_ fault. The Colonel had only been in the labs because Rodney was there… he'd only been injured so badly because he'd tried to save _his_ life instead of worrying about his own. McKay felt a sick hopelessness well up inside him. The worst thing was that he knew that Sheppard wouldn't see it that way, wouldn't blame him at all. And that just made him feel all the worse.

Carson's reluctance couldn't hold up in the face of so many hopeful faces and Rodney guessed the kind-hearted Scot probably felt sorry for Ronon and Teyla, who had had this news thrust suddenly open them and were no doubt needing to reassure themselves that Sheppard was okay. Either way, Dr Beckett's resistance wavered as he looked over the group clustered around him and, when his eyes moved past them and met Rodney's gaze, he relented.

"Okay then. But only for a moment."

Carson's eyes stayed with Rodney as he spoke and the scientist began to get a little paranoid, wondering if the burden of guilt he was struggling with had shown through in his face.

"I have to warn ye though…"

Rodney didn't want to hear Carson's warning, didn't want to know what further trauma Sheppard had suffered, he just wanted to see his friend and try to find a bit of hope somewhere that he wasn't going to lose him for good. He pushed back the blankets and struggled to swing his legs over the side of the bed.

"Rodney, where d'you think you're going?" Carson's voice was tinged with a note of exasperation.

McKay set his jaw stubbornly. "I'm coming to see Colonel Sheppard."

Carson sighed. "Not without a wheelchair, you're not. I've already had to pick you up off the floor once today."

Rodney bristled at that, his chin rising as he glared at his team, daring them to so much as comment. He swore he could see the hint of a smile tugging at Elizabeth's lips but Ronon and Teyla returned his gaze with poker-faces intact. He made a mental note never to play cards with those two.

"I'll be fine," he declared stubbornly. He used his arms to slide himself carefully off the mattress and couldn't hold back an instinctive "Oww," as his stiff muscles protested the movement.

"Oh for goodness sake." Carson didn't bother to hide his exasperation as he strode into the infirmary.

"Jessica, could you get me a wheelchair for Dr McKay please?" The guard-dog, as Rodney had rather snippily come to think of her, moved swiftly to comply and Dr Beckett turned to the small crowd gathered around the now closed doors to the surgical suite.

"Just one moment. Then you can see him." He made sure to wait until everyone, especially Ronon, had grudgingly acquiesced before turning to see to his other recalcitrant patient.

"Stay still, Rodney," he chided, "before your pull your IV out."

Beckett's hands were gentle but firm as he nudged McKay back to a seated position on the bed and, after seeing that the IV bag was all but finished, carefully withdrew the needle lodged in the crook of Rodney's elbow. McKay couldn't help a hiss of pain as Carson peeled back the tape holding the needle and tubing securely in place and the doctor gave him a long-suffering look.

"How're you feeling? The truth now!" Carson's voice made it clear he was in no mood to play games and Rodney quickly gave in.

"Tired. Achy"

"Aye, well I'm no surprised. You had an exhausting day yesterday and your midnight wanderings certainly didn't help matters any."

He pressed a small piece of dressing to the puncture wound and guided Rodney's hand to hold it in place. "Plenty of sleep and rest and you'll be back to normal within a day or two."

McKay's aching muscles were not at all happy about the transfer to the wheelchair and he felt positively geriatric as, with Carson and the nurse's help, he lowered himself stiffly into place. He felt an absurd mix of impatience and apprehension as Carson wheeled him over the join his team-mates.

"Okay." Carson spoke to the group calmly but firmly. "You can only stay for a moment or two. The Colonel is still very weak. He's still on the ventilator at present and.."

Rodney felt that same, sick coldness wash over him as Beckett hesitated.

"..I don't want you to be alarmed at the Colonel's appearance.

Beckett couldn't miss the looks of apprehension his words caused and he rushed to reassure them, "He has some side effects from the blood transfusion. It's fairly common - nothing to worry about – but it does look a bit… unsettling."

With that he pushed Rodney's wheelchair forwards and the doors slid open to admit them to the surgical suite.

An immediate hush fell over the little group as their attention fell on the only occupied bed in the recovery room. From the doorway they could barely see Colonel Sheppard at all, their view blocked by the array of machines and monitors required just to keep the Colonel alive. From his seat in the wheelchair Rodney couldn't see past most of the machines even as they approached the bed but he heard Elizabeth's involuntary gasp from just behind him. Beckett carefully manoeuvred Rodney into a gap between the rows of medical equipment and McKay felt his heart sink. Sheppard looked… awful.

His messy shock of hair was dark against the stark white sheets, the pale tinge of his skin. The eyes that were usually so full of life and good humour were closed, the lower half of his face obscured by the thick tubing of the ventilator. The sheet was drawn up to his chest, his arms and hands a mass of taped IV ports. What drew McKay's attention though, what made Elizabeth gasp and Teyla look so solemn, was the scattered mottling of the skin on the Colonel's arms and across his chest … ugly red pinpricks and blotches of colour marred the skin in patches, almost like a rash.

Carson's voice was soft from behind him. "It's called thrombocytopenic purpura – bleeding under the skin. It's caused by low platelet count following the loss of blood and subsequent transfusion."

Teyla spoke slowly, her concern evident as she tore her eyes away from the angry marks to seek reassurance from Dr Beckett. "You say it is not.. dangerous?"

"No love, not at all. It will most likely clear up on its own over the next day or two." The unspoken addendum to that sentence hung heavy in the air. "If…" Rodney thought gloomily. "If he survives that long."

Carson began to explain the nature of the Colonel's injuries to Ronon and Teyla, filling them in on what had happened in their absence, Teyla doing most of the talking as Ronon stared solemnly at his injured CO. McKay let their voices tune out as he regarded his friend. Sheppard looked so… so fragile. Not a word he had ever associated with the Colonel before. Even when the iratus bug had been draining the life from him, leaving him pale, paralysed and in pain, Sheppard had been forceful, in control. He had still taken charge of events, still been their leader, forcing Rodney to pull himself together, reminding them of their obligations to the marines in the forward compartment, arguing his treatment options with Beckett and his team, suggesting himself that they stop his heart in order to save his life. McKay had been a little in awe of Sheppard that day, envious of his strength, his fortitude.

And now Sheppard looked.. broken. And if Sheppard could be so suddenly and completely broken, then what hope was there for someone like himself?

"Oh my god.. Carson!"

Elizabeth had moved up to the head of the bed, her mouth pressed thin as she gazed down at her unconscious military commander; the man who was, in many ways, her partner in leading this mission.

Her voice was shocked, rising into a note of panic as she called for Carson, interrupting the doctor's explanations as he hurried forward.

"Oh my goodness, I'm sorry.."

Beckett grabbed a bowl and cloth from beside the bed and leaned over the Colonel, blocking Rodney's view. Panic seized him and he leaned forward in the chair, peering past the bank of monitors to see the cloth come away bloody as Carson dabbed it carefully to Sheppard's face. Rodney felt sick as he realised fresh, red blood was trickling from Sheppard's nose.

"It's another side effect of the low platelets, I'm afraid," Carson was explaining calmly. "Even with the blood products he's received it's going to take time for his platelets to get back to normal."

He continued to press the cloth to Sheppard's face, the pristine, white fabric gradually staining red as the slow flow of blood soaked into it. Rodney felt something close to despair. He couldn't do this; he wasn't the strong one. Sheppard was the strong one. But Sheppard lay close to death, a machine breathing for him, bleeding into his skin and from his nose, all because he'd protected _him_, protected Rodney.

"Okay everyone, I'm afraid that'll have to do for now." Carson still leaned over the bed, his attention focused now on his patient. He looked up at them briefly.

"I'll let you know as soon as I have any further news for you."

They stepped back from the bed, leaving Carson to his work, but before they turned to go it was Ronon who voiced the question they were all thinking.

"Doctor. Is he going to be okay?"

Beckett's face was sombre, his voice carefully non-committal.

"I'll let you know, son. I'll let you know…"

* * *

_TBC…._


	10. Survival

_Sorry it's taken me so long to update this fic – many thanks to all those who reviewed and who poked and prodded and chased me to update. :) Hope you like the results._

_Lots of introspection again in this chapter – and not much in the way of action – but there's more whumpage for you to enjoy and even some more "Sheppy nekkid under a sheet" action!_

_Next chapter we will see things begin to slowly resolve.. I think Sheppy's taken about as much damage as he can for now!

* * *

_

The debrief on Ronon and Teyla's trading mission was short and to the point; no-one seeming inclined to speak more than was necessary. Elizabeth's questions were short and precise, Teyla's answers brief. Ronon, taciturn at the best of times, was a silent, glowering presence and what words were spoken were quiet, everyone lowering their voices seemingly by some unspoken agreement. The atmosphere in the room was altogether tense and subdued. Though they tried their best to carry on business as usual, it was clear that everyone's mind was on something – or, more precisely, someone - else.

Elizabeth took a moment during the briefing to regard her primary gate team; the tension was evident on all of their faces, Sheppard's absence a palpable reminder of the object of their concern. It was as if there were a fifth person in the room, a ghostly presence who served only to highlight the empty space where the Colonel should have been. Sheppard was their team leader, a controlling influence who fused these disparate personalities into an efficient, working group. In many ways, Sheppard was the glue that held the team together and without him they seemed.. incomplete.

Rodney, freshly-released from the infirmary, though under protest from Carson, still looked exhausted. He was supposed to be resting, and Carson would probably have her hide when he found out McKay had attended the debriefing, but the scientist had insisted on being included, seeking, she suspected, to distract himself with activity, with some semblance of normal, every-day life. Thus far, she didn't think it was working. McKay sat up straight in his chair and gave every indication of paying attention to the conversation but whenever she glanced his way she would find a far-off look to his eyes and a rigidity to his posture that spoke volumes.

Carson had been reluctant to release Rodney but McKay had argued that if all he needed was rest then he could do that as well, if not better, in his own quarters as in the infirmary. In a reversal of his usual behaviour, which saw him turning up at the infirmary to demand treatment for every minor injury or imagined condition, McKay had seemed desperate to escape, finally losing his temper and snapping at Dr Beckett that he was never going to get any rest in here, knowing that Sheppard was busily _dying_ in the next room.

After that Carson had stopped arguing with Rodney and agreed to his release – under strict conditions that he get plenty of rest and eat regularly. Taking note of the pallor to Rodney's skin and the shadows under his eyes, Elizabeth made a mental note to personally take Rodney to the mess hall, by force if necessary, once the debrief was over and make sure that he followed at least one of Beckett's orders.

If there was ever a complete opposite to McKay's mercurial, heart on his sleeve personality, then it would probably be Ronon. Elizabeth found him difficult to read at the best of times. Never given to lengthy conversation, he mostly kept his thoughts – and certainly his emotions – to himself and his somewhat brooding demeanour had the, almost certainly intentional, effect of discouraging attempts at communication. That the man had built some kind of bond with Sheppard and respected the Colonel immensely was plain for all to see and his concern for his CO had been more than demonstrated by his actions since hearing the news of Sheppard's accident. More than that though, Elizabeth could not say. The Satedan had barely spoken a word to anyone since they had left the infirmary earlier that morning and he now sat through the debrief in stony silence, a scowl on his face as Teyla described their meetings with the Lenarans.

As for Teyla.. the petite Athosian was a leader of her people for good reason. Teyla's calm, level-headed attitude was a great asset to the team and Elizabeth had a great deal of respect for the Athosian's honesty and integrity and her oft-needed skills in diplomacy. Elizabeth also had a unique perspective on the burden of leadership that Teyla carried with her. A leader must be strong for her people, someone on whom they can depend. A leader cannot simply put her duties aside because a friend is ill, maybe even dying. Her people still need her and her duty lies with them. Elizabeth understood this and the look in Teyla's eyes told her clearly that Teyla understood and empathised with Elizabeth's own responsibilities.

Ronon was on his feet almost before Elizabeth had wrapped up the debrief and dismissed the team, striding quickly from the room, tightly-contained frustration evident in every line of his body. He was gone from view within moments, his steps carrying him in the direction of the infirmary. Elizabeth watched him go with a look of resignation on her face. Carson had been extremely strict on allowing access to the Colonel, keeping everyone out of the recovery room and allowing only very brief visits. It was difficult for the team, his closest friends; their natural instinct being to be near their injured comrade, to offer what support they could and to reassure themselves of his continued survival. Dr Beckett, however, remained firm, if not unsympathetic. The Colonel, he informed them, was still very weak and required constant monitoring. Brief visits would have to suffice for the time being. Teyla gave Dr Weir her usual, solemn nod as she left the room, following in Ronon's path, and Elizabeth relaxed a little, knowing if anyone could soothe Ronon's temper it would be Teyla.

Elizabeth stretched tiredly as she rose from her seat, a sudden yawn taking her by surprise. She glanced at her watch, realising glumly that she'd only had about 2 hours' sleep at most in the past 30-odd hours. Funny how the mind played tricks on one's perception of time. It was something of a shock to realise that barely 24 hours had passed since the explosion that had injured John; that this time just yesterday the expedition's military commander was walking around the city, whole and healthy.

"Rodney,"

Dr McKay started at the sound of her voice, actually physically jumped in his seat, and Elizabeth felt concern wash through her. They were all so fixated on whether John was going to survive, it was easy to forget what Rodney had been through. He'd been lucky to escape the explosion with minor physical injuries but emotionally the experience had been traumatic. She couldn't imagine how she would be feeling right now if it had been she who had knelt in that dark and smoke-filled corridor, trying desperately to stop Sheppard's bleeding, seeing him, _feeling_ him die right under her hands. She could only thank god that Carson had reached them when he did.

"Come on, Rodney. Let's get you something to eat."

McKay looked like he was about to argue but Elizabeth was not about to take no for an answer.

"I'm already going to be in trouble with Carson for allowing you to attend the debriefing when you should be resting," she chided gently, keeping her tone determinedly light. "If I don't at least make sure that you eat something, he's probably going to remember that I'm long overdue for some inoculation or other… and I like needles about as much as the next man!"

The grim expression on Rodney's face made it clear that he saw right through her attempt at levity.. but the look of gratitude in his eyes told her that he appreciated the effort nonetheless. The exhausted scientist rose stiffly from his seat, fatigue evident in his every movement, and allowed Elizabeth to lead him from the room.

* * *

Elizabeth found Carson in his office. Her Chief Medical Officer looked exhausted, slumped in his chair, his attention fixed on the charts that covered his desk. She didn't need to look over his shoulder to know whose charts they would be.

He greeted her with a tired smile, anticipating her first question and answering it before she had chance to speak.

"He's stable, love. No real change since this morning."

"Actually," she smiled, "I was going to ask how you are?"

"Me? Oh, I'm fine, lass.." He dismissed her concern with a wave of his hand, a show of nonchalance that didn't fool either of them for a second. Elizabeth knew for a fact that Carson had had no more sleep than she recently, spending every moment he could caring for his patient, doing his best to stabilise the Colonel's condition. The kind-hearted Scot cared so deeply for his patients and she once again had cause to be thankful for his skill and his dedication to his work. The fact that Sheppard was alive at all right now was entirely due to Carson's efforts.

"I take it Ronon stopped by earlier?" By unspoken agreement they moved onto neutral topics, Carson grinning ruefully as he described the Satedan's attempts to intimidate the nurses into allowing him entry to the recovery room.

"Teyla suggested we start sending nurse Bieler along on some of our trading missions," Carson laughed. "Apparently she is a mean negotiator!"

Elizabeth felt some of her tension lift as she shared a brief moment of levity with Beckett. God, it felt good to just forget their worries for a moment, to have something – anything – to laugh about.

The respite was to be short-lived.

Even as Carson was describing the look on Ronon's face as nurse Bieler effectively stonewalled him, an alarm began to squeal shrilly from within the infirmary and their laughter fell away in an instant, their eyes locking in a moment of pure understanding, both of them knowing immediately that the alarm meant only one thing.

"Dr Beckett!" The nurse's voice was high-pitched, tight with urgency as she called for his presence. Another crisis. Dammit.

As they ran to the recovery room, Elizabeth became aware of another sound beneath the shrill wail of the alarm; a rattling, clattering sound. She was right behind Carson as they burst into the room, Beckett moving immediately to Sheppard's bedside, conferring urgently with the duty doctor who already had a prepared syringe in his hand. Elizabeth's steps faltered at the sight of Sheppard, her heart sinking at his condition.

The Colonel's body was jerking convulsively, his limbs twitching spasmodically, making the bed rattle and shake. The sound of the infirmary bed rattling with the force of his convulsions seemed impossibly loud as she stood helplessly and watched him shudder, the ventilator tube shaking and trembling, IV tubing swaying and bouncing as his arms jumped involuntarily.

The Colonel's bed was once again the centre of a flurry of activity, nurses trying to hold his twitching limbs still and prevent leads and IVs being pulled out, Carson moving quickly to inject the Colonel with anti-convulsant medication. Elizabeth hung back, unwilling to get in the doctors' way as they worked, watching in despair as her Chief Military Officer, her _friend_, suffered yet another setback. She couldn't help but wonder how much more of this his body could take. Watching him seize helplessly before her she felt the tiny flame of hope within her flicker and die. They were going to lose him for good this time. His grip on life was so.. so fragile and she felt she could almost see him slipping away.

Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity, Sheppard's convulsions began to ease, his body slowly stilling and, with one or two last spasmodic jerks, he was finally quiet. In the silence that followed, Elizabeth swore she could hear the medical team breathe out in a shared sigh of relief, the nurses carefully relinquishing their grips on the Colonel's limbs. She took a hesitant step forward, needing to reassure herself that he was still alive, still hanging on.

Beckett was busy checking the monitors as she moved up alongside the bed, sparing her no more than a brief glance as he and the duty doctor went over the readouts and muttered over Sheppard's charts. The sheets covering the Colonel had tangled from his violent movements and Elizabeth's mouth tightened as she saw again the mottled rash of pinprick bleeding scattered across Sheppard's exposed chest. The marks were red and angry against the extreme pallor of his skin, his lean frame somehow seeming frail and delicate in the confines of the infirmary bed. Despite his generally easy-going nature, his laid-back attitude, Colonel Sheppard had an intensity to him, a sense of hidden strength and fortitude that belied his slim build. That strength seemed to have deserted him now and Elizabeth found it hard to reconcile the still, pale body before her with the vibrant, strong-willed man who worked alongside her to run this expedition.

"Dr Weir.."

She started slightly at Carson's voice, raising her eyes to meet his concerned gaze. With a gentle hand on her arm he guided her away from the bedside, his manner subdued as he answered her unspoken question.

"As you saw, the Colonel suffered a seizure. It's not uncommon in these situations, I'm afraid. We're still fighting to stabilise his blood chemistry after the transfusions and his calcium dropped a wee bit too low."

"Is he..?" She cut off on that train of thought, swallowing thickly, struggling to get the words out. "How will this affect his recovery?"

Carson shook his head sadly. "I wish I could tell you, lass. We've controlled the seizure and I've started him on medication to increase his calcium.. we'll continue to monitor him closely and try to prevent any more episodes. It's all we can do right now."

He rubbed a hand at the back of his neck as he spoke, massaging the tired, tense muscles.

"It's up to him now, Elizabeth. We're doing everything we can, keeping his condition as stable as possible to allow his body time to recover from the trauma." He did his best to reassure her, "He's been through a lot - but he's strong, stronger than any of us realise, I suspect."

Elizabeth couldn't help but think how frail Sheppard had looked lying limp and tangled in that infirmary bed, how that strength that she had come to depend on had seemed to be entirely missing.

Beckett's voice was gentle but nothing could soften the brutal truth of his words.

"Whether Colonel Sheppard survives is down to him now."

* * *

_TBC.._


	11. Waking Up

_Well this update is long overdue but it's here at last! And for the first time since chapter 1, we have proper John Sheppard POV – yes folks, our boy is awake at last! Of course, the whumpage continues.. and so does the McKay angst._

_Hope you enjoy the chapter – please do review and let me know your thoughts :)_

_

* * *

_It was three days before Sheppard opened his eyes. Three days with no change in his condition. Carson had said that was a good thing – no change meant his condition was stabilising and it was "encouraging" that he hadn't suffered any further setbacks. McKay quickly decided he hated that kind of mumbo-jumbo doctor speak. He suspected Carson would soon be telling them he was "cautiously optimistic". McKay was not by nature an optimistic man; as far as he was concerned, no change meant no improvement. Sheppard remained pale and still and unconscious, his body a tangle of wire and tubes, a machine doing his breathing for him. 

McKay spent as much time as he could in the infirmary during those three days. The Colonel remained in intensive care and Carson continued to restrict access to his patient, limiting visits to 10 to 15 minutes at a time. Sheppard was still being closely monitored; a never-ending array of nurses and doctors checking his pulse and blood pressure, his EKG and ECG, urinalysis and blood chemistry, his medications continually being adjusted to manage his symptoms and to prevent further crises. His little corner of the infirmary was a constant hive of activity.

Elizabeth, Teyla and Ronon had all spent their share of time in the infirmary too but somehow there seemed to have been an unspoken decision to defer to McKay when it came to apportioning the limited visiting hours. A small, prideful part of Rodney's psyche almost resented being treated differently, his team's assumption that he was somehow more fragile or emotional than they, but the truth was the events in that darkened corridor had shaken him more than he liked to admit. Sleep had been hard come by during the last few nights, haunted by dreams of death and destruction from which he awoke sweating and panting, goosebumps shivering his skin, trying to shake off the imagined sensation of blood on his hands.

He felt unwillingly drawn to Sheppard's bedside - sitting there watching the rise and fall of the Colonel's chest as the ventilator pushed air into his lungs was a kind of sweet agony, equally as terrifying as it was reassuring. The need to see for himself that Sheppard was still there, still hanging on to life, warred against the fear of something else going wrong, of Sheppard being abruptly snatched from them if he should once allow himself to believe that things were going to be okay. He found himself almost holding his breath as he sat there, watching the Colonel obsessively, terrified of missing some change in his condition that would signal disaster, anticipating each rhythmic hiss of the ventilator, half-convinced that the sound would suddenly stop, that Sheppard's breathing would cease.

He knew this wasn't doing him any good, wasn't helping the nightmares, but the need to watch over Sheppard had become almost a superstition; some deep, primeval part of his soul fearing that if he stopped his self-imposed vigil, gave up his fear and his hope, then Sheppard would die and it would be his fault. He was distantly aware of Carson keeping a concerned eye on his bedside visits and knew it would not be long before he was being pushed towards talking with Dr Heightmeyer. He could even accept that, at some point, that would probably be a good idea. Right now though, talking was the last thing he felt like doing.

After three long days of nothing, of the slow, continuous hiss of the ventilator, Rodney didn't know whether to laugh or cry when Sheppard's eyes slowly opened.

* * *

Sheppard blinked slowly, his eyes drifting open as he slowly swam back to consciousness. For a long moment he was beyond conscious thought, processing only vague sensation as he stared sightlessly at the pale green ceiling above him. He felt slow, disconnected, his mind fogged by drugs and confusion. 

He was only vaguely aware of sounds, muffled and distorted, beeping and clicking, voices talking. He was wrapped in a pervasive lethargy that weighed him down, making him sluggish and woozy. He frowned as he struggled to make sense of his surroundings.

"Carson!"

A loud voice pierced through the fog in his mind, making him flinch. He tried to speak, to answer, and found he couldn't. The world rushed back into focus with a snap as he realised his mouth and throat were blocked, his chest rising and falling outside of his control; an odd, uncomfortable sensation as air was forced into his lungs. The ceiling sharpened into focus and he realised distantly he was in the infirmary, on Atlantis. A surge of panic began to well up in him as he focused in on the array of thick plastic tubing partially blocking his view, tubing that originated from somewhere just under his nose… he felt himself starting to gag helplessly, his body instinctively fighting what he realised was a ventilator, forcing him to breathe.

He felt trapped, unable to move, unable to speak, unable to breathe. His muscles tensed instinctively and a sudden sharp pain in his belly cut through his medicated numbness, making his attempts to breathe hitch, increasing his fear. He tried to raise a hand to the tubing blocking his airway and found he could barely lift his arm, his muscles trembling with fatigue. Panic sent adrenalin surging through him and he clawed weakly at the tubing with a clumsy hand, unable to get a grip on the smooth plastic.

"Colonel Sheppard!" He flinched when a face loomed over him. Beckett. Beckett was here. He tried to force himself to calm down but he couldn't breathe, couldn't get any air… A firm hand gripped his wrist and pushed his arm back down, holding it in place when he struggled

"Colonel, it's okay. You're in the infirmary. You're on a ventilator to help you breathe. I know it's uncomfortable but I need you to calm down for me and stop fighting it. Let the machine breathe for you. You're okay, there's plenty of air.. just calm down. Don't try to breathe yourself, just let the machine do its job…."

Carson kept talking, his voice calm and soothing, and Sheppard tried to do as he was told, closing his eyes as he focused only on Carson's voice, trying to push down on the panic flooding through him, trying to suppress the urge to breathe for himself, trust in Carson that he would be okay, that the machine would breathe for him.

It was a terrifying feeling; his body was not his to control, he had to surrender utterly to the machine and trust that it would work. John was not a man who found it easy to give up control.

"That's it, son. Easy now.."

He concentrated on Beckett's voice. He could trust Beckett…

"There now, you're okay son.."

He could feel the tubing in his throat, feel his chest rising and falling rhythmically. He tried to force himself to relax, concentrating on letting the tension ease from his muscles.

"Colonel Sheppard?"

It took him a moment to open his eyes, the panicky feeling still fluttering at the edges of his control.

Beckett was smiling down at him, his expression an odd mixture of concern and relief. "Can you hear me, son?" Unable to speak, John fixed his gaze onto Carson's face, trying to convey to the doctor his barely-contained panic and frustration. Beckett seemed to understand, nodding his satisfaction that Sheppard was aware of his surroundings.

"Now, I know that the ventilator feels odd, Colonel, but the fact that you struggled with it is a good sign – it shows your respiratory function is trying to work spontaneously. Just give me a while to check you over and we'll see about getting you off that machine, okay?"

John's eyes roamed randomly across the ceiling and what he could see of the room as Carson fussed over him, poking and prodding and checking readings. He realised belatedly that the beeping he'd been aware of in the background was a heart monitor. A glance up to his left showed an IV stand with a couple of different solution bags hanging from it. He wondered just how long he'd been in the infirmary.. under the generalised numbness that he recognised as pain meds, he felt weak and exhausted, his limbs heavy and aching. Now that he wasn't focused entirely on the desperate need to breathe, he was becoming more and more aware of the insistent throb of pain in his belly and he realised that he didn't even know what was wrong with him, didn't remember coming to the infirmary. He frowned, biting his lip against the flaring pain, trying to remember. Nothing. He could feel the panic stirring in him again, the awful sensation that he was not in control of his own body and mind, when a noise nearby caught his attention and another face loomed over him.

Not Carson. McKay. He looked awful. Tired and worried and… lost.

"Hey," Rodney's voice was subdued, not the usual McKay arrogance at all.

Sheppard stared up helplessly at his friend, unable even to speak to him, and the frustration made him want to scream. He couldn't stop himself from tensing up, wanting to move, to do something, and the pain in his belly brought a grimace to his face, his grunt of pain stifled by the hard tube in his throat.

"Carson?" McKay called for the doctor with a look of sheer despair on his face as John struggled to get a grip on himself.

"Okay, Rodney. It's okay. Take a seat for a moment and let me look after the Colonel."

McKay let himself be ushered aside, without even a protest Sheppard realised, and then Beckett was leaning over him, blocking out the ceiling as he fiddled with the tubing of the ventilator, snapping open fastenings as he began to disconnect the machine.

"Okay, son. Let's get rid of this nasty thing, shall we? Give those lungs a chance to do some of their own work, eh?"

With a final soft click he disconnected the tubing from the mouthpiece and set it aside, leaving just the mouth piece and the endotracheal tube.

"Now, this is going to be a wee bit uncomfortable, lad. I need you to breathe out for me.."

John did his best to follow Beckett's instructions, breathing out as Carson took hold of the mouthpiece and pulled, gagging slightly as he felt the tube slide up his throat. For a moment he thought he was going to be sick and then the tube was clear and he was coughing, the pain in his belly tightening, as Carson quickly placed an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose, gently lifting his head from the pillow as he slid the elasticated strap into place. His mouth and throat felt dry and raw but it was a wonderful feeling to be able to breathe in for himself, tasting the ozone tinge of pure oxygen as he sucked in a breath.

"There now. Much better, eh?"

He nodded weakly, raising a shaky hand to move the mask aside, only for Carson to stop him with a frown.

"No, no. Leave the mask on for now, son." He pushed John's arm back to the bed with disturbing ease.

"Is he okay?" Now that he could move his head enough to look around him, John realised Rodney was still hovering nearby, anxiety written on his expressive face.

"He's doing much better, Rodney," Carson looked more than pleased.. he looked relieved. John was beginning to wonder how ill he'd been if this was "much better" because, honestly, he felt pretty darn rotten. The burning pain in his abdomen was constant now, despite the lingering effects of the pain meds in his IV, and he felt weak and shaky, so much so that any movement was an effort. And he still didn't know how he'd landed himself in this mess in the first place.

He tried to speak, despite the mask, but found his voice wouldn't work, nothing but a dry croak emerging, muffled by the oxygen mask.

"Just a moment, Colonel, your throat's going to be very dry from the ventilator. Rodney, could you get Colonel Sheppard some ice chips, please?"

McKay seemed reluctant to leave but, with an encouraging push from Carson, did slowly move away from the bed, keeping his eyes on John until he'd moved out of sight. Sheppard turned his tired gaze to Beckett and the doctor didn't need words to understand the question there.

"He's been pretty worried about you, Colonel. We all have. You gave us quite the scare.."

Some of John's confusion must have shown in his face because Carson's expression turned quizzical, his voice gentle as he asked, "Do you remember what happened, son?"

John frowned, the effort it took even to shake his head leaving him exhausted.

"You pushed me out of the way is what happened!" McKay returned with ice chips in time to catch Carson's question and see John's response, some of the old McKay bluster coming back into his voice as he shoved the cup carelessly into Carson's hands, glowering down at Sheppard almost angrily.

"Rodney.." Carson admonished gently, setting the cup of chips down as he carefully lifted the oxygen mask from Sheppard's face, letting it hang loosely under John's chin.

Fatigue was starting to catch up to Sheppard and he couldn't keep pace with McKay's lightening mood changes. He lay still, concentrating on trying to ignore the grumbling pain in his abdomen as Carson carefully slipped a couple of ice chips between his dry lips. The sensation of the ice melting in his mouth, the cool water sliding down his throat, was heavenly and he let his eyes slide closed as he savoured the refreshing moisture.

"Is he okay? Should he be doing that?" Sheppard knew McKay well enough to recognise a note of panic in his voice that bordered on hysteria. He opened his eyes tiredly to find his friend hovering anxiously once more, looking to Carson for reassurance.

"I'm fine." He was surprised by how much effort it took to talk, even those two quiet words, and by how faint and hoarse his voice sounded.

"You're not fine, you're _anything_ but fine!" Rodney rounded on him with a fury that shocked John. "You nearly died, Colonel. All because you had to play the damn hero and push me out of the way!"

Sheppard looked groggily to Carson for confirmation and saw in the doctor's solemn face the exhaustion and concern of a man who has spent hours fighting to keep his patient alive.

"Out of the way of what?" Was that really his voice? It sounded so… frail.

Sheppard could see McKay's exasperation warring with concern at his lack of memory. "Of the great big explosion, Colonel Kamikaze! Remember? The one that took out half of my lab and left you with a chunk of metal the size of the Empire State Building sticking out of your.."

Rodney's tirade cut off suddenly as Carson in vain tried to shush him. Sheppard wasn't listening any more, his face creased in a frown as he fought to pin down a memory… a vague recollection of darkness and the crackling of tinny voices. He had a sudden picture of Rodney holding a flashlight in his teeth, his hands red and glistening in the harsh white light. Was that… was that real?

He tried to force himself to remember but the effort of concentration made him dizzy, his head beginning to ache and the fire in his belly making his muscles tremble.

"Colonel?"

He was dimly aware of Carson moving the oxygen mask back over his face. He felt so tired, so lost. Everything was confusing; his head felt heavy, his thoughts jumbled. It was all too much to deal with right now. More than anything he wanted to sleep, to just let the world slip away for a while, but the pain nagged at him and he couldn't help the smallest of groans, his exhaled breath steaming up the mask.

"Colonel Sheppard.."

With an effort of will he focused his eyes on Carson, the doctor leaning over him as he spoke.

"I'm going to give you something for your pain, Colonel. This will make you a wee bit woozy so you just sleep now. Don't worry yourself. We'll be here when you wake up."

His eyes were drifting closed even as he felt the tug of the IV line in his left arm. He lay still, too tired, too weak to move, and listened to the murmur of voices as Carson and McKay talked over him.

"Is he going to be okay?"

"He's exhausted, Rodney, and in pain. He needs rest."

"But he'll be okay now?"

"His condition is stabilised and he's breathing on his own. He's making good progress."

"Making good progress! What does that mean anyway? Can't you just give me a straight answer? You doctors are as bad as politicians! Hey, where are we going? Shouldn't you..?"

"Dr Steadman can keep on eye on the Colonel. I think you'll find visiting hours are over now.."

The voices grew quieter even as the pain slowly receded, a delicious numbness creeping over him, sinking him further into lethargy. He was so very tired…

John Sheppard slept.

* * *

_TBC..._


End file.
